


Dead Alive

by The_Asset6



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Canon-Typical Violence, Characters to be added, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sort Of, Zombies, modern!Bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-28 17:11:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 74,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15053930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Asset6/pseuds/The_Asset6
Summary: When he returned from the war, he thought he’d seen enough to last a lifetime. Now, barely three years later, Bucky Barnes finds himself caught in a new conflict deadlier than any he’s ever witnessed.When he went under, the world was at war. Now, almost seventy years later, Steve Rogers wakes to discover that the world hasn’t changed a bit—they’re just fighting a different war this time.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! I originally planned to post this story in the fall, but I was so excited that I decided to push the date up a bit. A good deal of the story is already written with the rest outlined; my hope is to update fairly regularly, as I have with my other stories. To anyone who read my Marvel Hogwarts AU, I'm afraid I won't be able to swing daily updates like I did then--we'll build a little more suspense this time, shall we? ;) 
> 
> Although this is technically a zombie AU, I do not plan to get gory with details, hence the lack of archive warnings. If there are any circumstances where more violence will be described than is typical, I will make sure to include a trigger warning in the beginning and end notes. I am extremely open to including trigger warnings for anything that may be an issue to my readers, so please don't hesitate to ask in a comment if you notice something that you'd like a bit of warning on.

“Oh, my God. This guy’s still alive!”

Fury narrowed his eyes at the screen, sitting forward in his seat. Not once during the entire rescue operation had he deemed it necessary to insert his two cents, but the sudden exclamation blaring through his speakers had him tapping the intercom button to demand, “What the hell are you talking about?”

The technician glanced wordlessly between him and the frozen body laid out on the metal slab. While his face was hidden behind goggles and protective gear suitable for the subzero environment, it wasn’t difficult for Fury to deduce that he must have looked supremely uncomfortable beneath it all. Then again, he was used to that sort of reaction.

“Sir, it’s—“

“An equipment malfunction,” interjected one of the other members of the recovery team, turning towards the camera that was their only connection from the Arctic to Fury’s office in the New York S.H.I.E.L.D. facility.

It was a damn good thing that they were a couple thousand miles away, too, because otherwise his first instinct wouldn’t have been to tonelessly echo, “An equipment malfunction.”

“That’s all it is, sir. Just a faulty scanner. We’ll use another,” he added pointedly to his partner, who hesitated briefly before setting aside the allegedly dysfunctional device and grabbing an identical tool.

Fury raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond, lounging back in his desk chair again as he watched the proceedings unfold. Ultimately, it didn’t matter how many times they had to repeat the same motions with different pieces of equipment or whether it took weeks—even months—for them to go public with their discovery. Handling this particular situation the wrong way wasn’t an option given who they were dealing with.

When the call had come in, he could hardly believe it: Captain America, finally found. It was the one accomplishment Howard Stark had never laid claim to, in spite of all the years and money he’d sunk into the venture. The fact that the captain had been located by _accident_ was almost hilariously ironic, if Fury were a laughing man. It was also oddly convenient when he accounted for the events of the last couple of years—Tony Stark coming out as the Iron Man, Bruce Banner getting run all over God’s green earth as the Hulk… Superheroes, or at least people with the _potential_ to be, were popping out of the woodwork.

Now they had the first, most famous superhero of all time. Well, his dead body anyway, but Fury counted it as a victory nevertheless.

Considering the circumstances, the cadaver was in good shape. Whether due to the serum or the ice, Captain Rogers hadn’t decomposed at all; even his uniform was still in excellent condition, albeit stiff and increasingly waterlogged as the ice began to melt away under the heat of the examination equipment. Fury wasn’t sure that they would go so far as to have an open-casket memorial for the guy (there was no doubt in his mind that there _would_ be a funeral now that they had something to go in that grave down at Arlington), but it would be a less depressing sight when Carter inevitably requested to see the body, in any case. Age was nothing more than a number for their most decorated and effective agent: Peggy Carter remained a force to be reckoned with, and Fury didn’t want to be the person standing between the retired S.H.I.E.L.D. founder and the hero she’d helped create. He already pitied the poor fool who tried to keep her at bay once she found out. Alzheimer’s or not, the woman was still sharp in more ways than one.

That was a bridge to be crossed when they got there, though. A flurry of incredulous whispers drew Fury’s attention back to the matter at hand, and he frowned to see that all three of their _expert_ technicians were gathered around the replacement device as they engaged in a seemingly heated debate.

_Fantastic._

“Is there a problem over there?” inquired Fury distastefully. That was all they needed right now.

One of the agents stepped away from the others, reader in hand, and pulled her goggles off to reveal a confused and disturbed expression that didn’t set him at ease one bit. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly a few times before, apparently deciding to let the situation speak for itself, she simply spun the scanner to make the display visible from Fury’s end.

“Sir, he’s… I don’t know how it’s possible, but…”

There was no need for her to continue. After all, he could read.

_Heart Rate: 5 bpm._

“Son of a bitch is alive,” murmured Fury, to which the technician nodded in stunned affirmation. “What was the initial reading?”

Flipping the machine back around, the technician recited, “Heart rate was initially at one beat per minute approximately ten minutes ago. Core body temperature has increased twenty degrees in that time—that’s way more than our equipment should have caused.”

Fury huffed incredulously, resting his elbows on his desk as he silently surveyed Captain America where the lucky bastard was reclined on the table. His skin was still blue, but there were patches here and there around his chin and nose that were beginning to adopt a healthier complexion; the ice was melting more rapidly than earlier, their heat lamp merely helping the process along while the body inside the frozen cocoon did the real work—a body that didn’t look a day worse than it likely had when it was submerged to begin with.

Captain America, the world’s first superhero, was _alive_.

They needed to act— _fast_.

“Get him as close to stable as you can, then have him airlifted to the Manhattan facility,” ordered Fury. “And keep it quiet. We don’t want word of this getting out until we know more.”

Two of the technicians immediately obeyed while the third moved closer to the camera, her brows furrowed uncomfortably.

“Sir, this is _Captain America_ we’re talking about,” she quietly observed, hesitant to believe the words that were coming out of her mouth from the sound of it. That much, at least, was understandable. “How long do you think we’ll be able to lock this down?”

“As long as it takes,” replied Fury firmly and without pause.

Interpreting that as the dismissal it was, the technician nodded once and hastened to assist the others. Fury didn’t wait to ensure that they followed his instructions, though, instead cutting the feed to stare sightlessly out of his office window. Denying that she’d had a point was ridiculous: they couldn’t cover something like this up for very long, and he damn well knew it. One text to a family member, a little gossip on their way out of the building, a promotion-grubber hunting for a path to the top—and the whole world would be beating down their doors to catch a glimpse of the good old-fashioned _man with a plan_.

That was fine. If the press wanted a story, they could have it. _Later_. They just needed to get Rogers to New York and figure out what state he was in first. After all, the man had been under ice for the better part of a century; there was no telling whether or not his mental faculties would be in the same condition as his physical ones. Once they had a few answers—once they had a few plans— _then_ they would worry about informing the world of what they’d discovered.

Until then, however, he had some calls to make.

 

***

 

> _CDC ISSUES HEALTH ADVISORY – POSSIBLE NEW STRAIN OF MENINGITIS FOUND_
> 
> _Multiple cases of what experts are classifying as a violent strain of meningitis have been reported throughout Africa and southeast Asia._
> 
> _While little is confirmed about the illness to date, researchers have indicated that the symptoms of a disease spreading through the southern part of the Eastern Hemisphere appear consistent with those experienced by individuals suffering from parasitic meningitis strains. These symptoms include but are not limited to headache, stiff neck, nausea, vomiting, fever, photophobia, and altered mental state._
> 
> _Travelers worldwide are being cautioned by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) to avoid areas where the infection has been reported, as well as to take certain precautions during interactions with anyone who may have been exposed. International airports are also implementing mandatory minimum quarantine periods for individuals returning from Africa and Asia to undergo medical testing before being released back into their home countries._
> 
> _New York neurosurgeon Dr. Stephen Strange, who has been working closely with the CDC, released a statement to the press on Wednesday and claimed, “We are doing what we can to better understand this disease and contain its spread. Travel to the impacted areas is discouraged at this time. If you must go, please exercise caution.”_

***

 

> _PRESIDENT DECLARES STATE OF EMERGENCY_
> 
> _President Ellis called for a nationwide state of emergency on Monday after cases of a new strain of parasitic meningitis swept across the globe in less than a week._
> 
> _The disease, which appears to have originated in Africa and southeast Asia, is still under investigation at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). Initial assessments theorized that the disease was related to parasitic meningitis, a hypothesis that still prevails among leading medical experts. The symptoms of the present strain, however, differ drastically from existing parasitic infections as the disease incubates over time. Patients have been shown to suffer from standard symptoms, such as headache, stiffness, nausea, vomiting, fever, photophobia, and altered mental state._
> 
> _According to reports from the CDC, afflicted individuals have also been reported to suffer from seizures and shock-induced comas. Those who have regained consciousness have shown signs of severely altered mental states wherein the patients are both aggressive and nonverbal. Those patients have thus far been unresponsive to known treatments._
> 
> _Although the CDC has not offered further information, social media feeds have described attacks by patients on healthcare professionals and visitors in recent days. Gwen Stacy, a New York resident whose boyfriend was one of the first in the state to be admitted to New York-Presbyterian/Queens with symptoms of this illness, took her story to Twitter:_
> 
> **Gwen Stacy** _@gstacy1_
> 
> **Harry woke up 2day – totally not himself, got violent, bit me… Thx @NYPQueens for the stitches, and sorry 2 the nurses who lost some skin :(**
> 
> _The Tweet was removed earlier today, as well as numerous others describing similar instances of patient violence, and the CDC has refused to comment on possible changes to brain chemistry that may occur as a result of contracting this illness._
> 
> _New York neurosurgeon and CDC spokesman Dr. Stephen Strange spoke with Christine Everhart last night and had this to say about the progress they have made:_
> 
> _“These things don’t happen overnight, and we’re still working on it. At this point, it’s too soon to say whether this is a parasite that has mutated or a new one entirely, which we have been investigating since the start. All we can confirm is that this is a very dangerous disease, and anyone who has come into contact with infected persons or materials should report to their local hospitals to be tested as soon as possible. To minimize the risk of infection, we recommend staying indoors and away from anyone or anything that may be contaminated. Boil your water before you use it. Keep your pets inside and away from other animals. And, of course, use common sense.”_
> 
> _The CDC is still investigating the disease itself, but the United States government is focusing on potential causes. Secretary of State Thaddeus Ross has issued multiple statements that government intelligence agencies haven’t ruled out the possibility of biological weapons just yet._
> 
> _The president is expected to give an address to the nation tonight at 8:00 PM EST with updates._


	2. Safe Harbor

Bucky was so tired of this shit.

Admittedly, he had been tired of it for a pretty long time. The years he’d spent in the army had left him with very little patience for terrible circumstances or awful situations—he was prepared for them, more so than most people could ever hope to be, but that didn’t mean he cared for them in the slightest. When he was stationed in the godforsaken desert, it was always one thing or another: patrols, IEDs, storms, suicide bombers, political unrest, and just about anything else that could possibly go wrong. It took getting used to, as their superiors said, though Bucky had never quite figured out if that was their way of consoling new recruits or simply telling them to suck it up. After all, there really _wasn’t_ any getting used to it. You merely realized after a while that you had to be ready for whatever fate threw at you and learn to sleep with one eye open and both boots on. The blisters would suck, but they’d be worth it if you were still breathing in the morning.

When he got out, he’d thought that was the end of that life, but the world just loved sucker punching him in the gut whenever it had the opportunity. Seriously, three years later, and he _still_ couldn’t catch a break. Three years later, and he was _still_ looking over his shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop or the other bullet to strike him or the other explosion to knock him out of his head for the last time.

He never considered that he would add looking over his shoulder for flesh-eating zombies (or whatever politically correct bullshit name you wanted to use for them) to his repertoire. In spite of the popular books and movies people drooled over, he didn’t think anyone else had either.

Hiking his backpack up higher on his shoulders and clipping the straps over his chest, Bucky poked his head out of the alleyway to survey the street. Manhattan was insufferable, nearly overrun at this point, yet he’d somehow been able to make it from the abandoned music store he’d holed up in over the last few days almost to Times Square without too much trouble. While his hunting knife begged to differ where it was slick with blood in his gloved right hand and desperately needed to be cleaned, he hadn’t been waylaid by more than a handful of Hosts on his way through the desolate city just yet. The ones he _had_ come across… Well, he tried not to think too much about them. They weren’t _people_ anymore, and even if they _were_ , it was kill or be killed around here. The president hadn’t said that outright in his last ridiculous plea for _patience and rationality_ on all the televisions in every electronics store’s windows, but Bucky had been around long enough to read between the lines. If the national guard wasn’t going to plow through these guys to protect whoever was left, then it was up to Bucky to keep himself alive until they got off their asses and left whatever hole they’d managed to hunker down in. If he had to guess, he’d say it would be a while: it wasn’t like anyone would willingly leave the comfort and relative safety of a fully stocked bunker to dig around the ruins of New York for survivors. They’d probably lose more than they’d save.

Manhattan was a graveyard, pure and simple.

That more than anything was the real kicker, if he was being honest: the silence was downright _unnerving_. He was Brooklyn-born and raised, and while it wasn’t exactly in the thick of things, you could hear the sounds of the metropolis from the boroughs as well. The city that never slept was called that for a reason, yet there was a ghostly quality to it that had only ever been achieved by post-apocalyptic movie makers up till now.

No one with a brain left in their heads talked. If you did, the Hosts would come for you.

The cacophony of car engines and honking horns was conspicuously absent. There wasn’t really anyone around to make them.

There were no planes, no trains, no businesses open anymore. After everything slid down that slippery slope to hell, the government had issued a warning for people to stay in their homes until it all blew over. Of course, it _hadn’t_ , and most of the sheep that had obediently remained indoors had long since been made dinner for their less fortunate neighbors.

For his part, Bucky didn’t have a home to shut himself into. He was one of the forgotten, the displaced and ignored who got lost in the shuffle when these sorts of situations reared their ugly heads. _Stay home_ , the powers that be would say. _Don’t go out on the streets._

When the streets were where you lived, though, where else were you supposed to go?

Nowhere.

So, Bucky had taken the only other road available to him: he’d kept moving. The upside to this whole mess was that Hosts didn’t really have the presence of mind to lock their doors, which meant he’d spent the last few weeks wriggling into whatever space he could that might have food and supplies to help him survive another night. Most places weren’t worth the struggle, usually where somebody—or a group of somebodies—had already taken up residence inside and were violently guarding against anything that so much as twitched, but there were plenty that still had enough to make a dent in what he was missing. Besides, anything was better than his standard fare. He’d started out with the clothes on his back, the few extra garments he’d been carrying in his backpack, a couple of granola bars, and the hunting knife he’d worn in an ankle holster since he was in the army. Being homeless came with a plethora of disadvantages, but the lack of resources had to be the worst.

All of his scavenging had gotten him this far, though, so he had to be grateful. If he’d been anyone else in any other scenario, he probably wouldn’t have made it this long. Regardless of whether his feet were killing him or his arm was tingling from the strain of hoisting his pack everywhere, he couldn’t deny that he was lucky to be alive. He’d seen so many others getting gnawed on in the street that he’d lost count, yet he lived on. Maybe knowing how to survive when the cards were stacked against you was the unforeseen perk of drifting.

Not that it was going to be of much use with a crowd of Hosts meandering around Times Square.

Bucky cursed under his breath, ducking back into the alley. He’d been hoping to make his way out of the city as quickly as possible; it would just get more crowded with Hosts every day that he waited, and the rural areas would be more defensible anyway. All things considered, that was his best bet, especially if any of those alleged rescue attempts really were going to be coming along any time now as promised. What with his less than immaculate state of dress, it would be better not to get mistaken for a Host, so he couldn’t afford to dawdle too long. The quickest route, however, took him straight through the center of Manhattan, and he’d been afraid of exactly what he was witnessing.

Retreating wasn’t an option. That would lead him too far out of his way; on limited supplies, that would be more disastrous than cautious. Going around the worst of the assemblage was a possibility, but it would take stamina that he simply didn’t have. Another point against not having a house or a job or any of the shit they told you was necessary when you were an adult? It wasn’t exactly easy to stay in shape and get enough to eat. Not that he didn’t get enough to _live_ off of, but he was nowhere near the pinnacle of health like he had been when he got into the army—or even when he got out. Running on a nearly empty stomach was never a good idea; climbing up fire escapes would be loud and draw more attention than it was worth. That didn’t even account for how badly his nearly useless left arm would slow him down in the process.

_So, straight through it is. It’s gotta be._

Swallowing his fear and steeling himself, Bucky peered around the corner to gauge his chances.

If he thought things might be different upon closer inspection, he was sorely mistaken. Times Square was standing-room only. It would have felt normal if not for all the vacant gazes and aimless wandering—Manhattan was always bustling, always full of movement and impatience and usually shouting when someone wasn’t doing the first one fast enough. There was no _meandering_ here like they’d done on patrols or in their free time overseas, and it _definitely_ shouldn’t have been this quiet. But that wasn’t even the eeriest part.

Despite their average appearances, there was no mistaking the Hosts barring his passage for ordinary people. Once you got past the dried blood on their faces and the skin under their fingernails and their filthy clothing, they looked fairly harmless—deceptively so. Their eyes were fogged over, grotesquely reminiscent of the corpses Bucky had seen in Afghanistan, and they shuffled to and fro with no particular destination. They made no sound aside from the scuffle of their shoes against the asphalt. That was what got him: zombie movies made it seem like they’d be groaning and hissing and all that dramatic crap, but they were ironically silent as the grave in the real world. Then again, whatever parasite caused this chaos wasn’t really much for talking if the victims Bucky had come into contact with were any indication. Eating, though? Yeah, it liked that. A _lot_.

Call him crazy, but Bucky preferred having all his internal organs on the _inside_ , thank you very much.

The odds of keeping it that way were getting slimmer by the second, however. There had to be at least a few dozen Hosts immediately blocking his path, at a glance—and those were just the ones he could distinguish from the shifting mass beyond. It was a testament to what he’d been through in the last couple of days alone that he was more annoyed than anything else; there wasn’t room for fear when it was everyone’s natural state of being these days. Well, everyone who hadn’t ended up like these poor schmucks. Regardless of the president’s repeated warnings to stay indoors and off the street, Bucky had seen plenty of well-to-do adults and entitled kids out and about before things got really bad. That had been…what, six weeks ago? Something like that. In any case, maybe other cities were better, but this was New York—people here didn’t listen to anyone who tried to order them around and tended to spit on your overpriced shoes if you did.

The worst offenders had paid the price. They weren’t the ones who would be inconvenienced by the result, though.

Bucky stood on his toes and strained his neck as far as he could to no avail. The vicinity was too crowded to assess whether there were more Hosts than he could spot or if the group directly before him comprised the worst of it. Although he sincerely doubted the latter, he figured it couldn’t hurt to keep a little hope alive. _Very_ little. Plus, did the exact number truly matter? All he had to do was get past them and up one of the side streets, then he’d be on his way out of the city’s center. (He wasn’t stupid enough to try getting into one of the buildings here. They were probably packed with Hosts in wrinkled business suits and broken stilettos.) He merely needed something that would keep their sightless yet inescapable gazes off him for a few seconds, and he’d be home free.

_Hopefully._

Weighing his options, Bucky withdrew a few feet and perfunctorily scanned the alley. There were many facets of life that being a soldier never prepared you for: filing tax returns, figuring out the difference between regular and _high-efficiency_ laundry detergent (because there _had_ to be a difference for _that_ price), zombie apocalypses. Improvising, however—that was one vocation where he was a literal professional.

Which was how he ended up wedged beneath a dumpster after retracing his steps for a few yards, the tendons in his right arm protesting the stretch while he managed to get his hand on a beer bottle some slob hadn’t bothered throwing into the actual bin. Glass was an excellent resource—loud, breakable, and sharp. On top of that, it was light, so he wouldn’t need to expend much precious energy to send it far. It was exactly the kind of tool he could put to devastating use. That being said, he grabbed two just to be safe, because of _course_ an entitled asshole who didn’t know how to throw his garbage away would bring a friend.

His irritation at the all too pervasive lack of common courtesy notwithstanding, he sent up a grudging—and silent—word of thanks to the nameless jerks nonetheless. If he was lucky, their bad manners and questionable taste in booze might save his life. Bucky wasn’t a big people person, but he was willing to give credit where it was due.

If he pulled this off, he figured he’d deserve some himself.

Improvisation props in hand, Bucky peered out onto the street again to make sure nothing had changed and line up his shot. Fortune, in this instance, was on his side for the time being: even the slight scuffling he’d made under the dumpster would frequently be enough to get a Host’s attention, but the noise of their own feet was apparently adequate to cover him. He would have to log that away for later.

_Much_ later. At the moment, he was too busy wordlessly bemoaning the fact that he was running on limited intelligence. It was still impossible to see the proverbial forest for the trees, so it looked like he would just have to cross his fingers and hope for the best. That seemed to be the theme of the month.

Taking a deep breath, he reached around the corner and let one of the bottles fly as hard as he could in the opposite direction from his route, pressing himself to the wall as soon as it left his hand.

He heard the shattering, the residual tinkling of tiny shards exploding in every direction, then silence.

Bucky didn’t dare to move. He didn’t dare to _breathe_. All he could do was flatten himself as much as possible against the rough bricks and wait.

It didn’t take long. First one pair of feet—then two—then the entire throng was shuffling closer and closer, nearing his hiding spot in their vacant curiosity and ravenous hunger…

When they made it to the mouth of the alley, he felt a flash of panic and nearly cut and run on pure instinct alone. His muscles were taut and twitching beneath his clothes as he fought everything in his gut that told him he needed to get out of there before they turned—before they _saw_ —

Except they didn’t. They moved with strangely even gaits, the parasites in their brains apparently not realizing that they could make a person run just as easily as they could walk—but they _kept_ moving. In fact, it was a little like a normal day in New York: homeless people were practically invisible to the average citizen anyway, no matter where you lived, but they were such a staple of life in the city that no one paid them any mind. It worked the same way for zombies, from the sound of it, and Bucky wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or insulted.

For now, he would take the former as the assemblage continued down the street until there were nothing but a few stragglers stumbling to keep up with the others. When he mustered the courage to crack an eye open, it was to see that no horror movie scenes were waiting to swallow him; not one of the Hosts had the sense to glance in his direction and instead passed without incident.

_Talk about a miracle…_

Bucky gave it another minute nevertheless to guarantee that they were no longer within earshot before slipping out into the open and sprinting along the sidewalk.

He regretted it almost instantly, screeching to a halt as he came face to face with so many Hosts that he couldn’t begin to estimate their numbers. Only his dread kept him from cursing aloud, not that it mattered much: it was like staring down the barrel of a gun as their opaque eyes turned to him as one.

Distantly, he registered that he would never make it through alive. His soldier’s mind was already cataloguing the details of his imminent demise without conscious thought. They were packed too tightly together; there were too many of them for him to fend off with nothing but the minuscule knife clutched tightly in his fist. He might be fast enough to outrun them, yet even that was a dangerous game: he’d be setting an example for them to follow and would never get away before some former track star caught up. It wouldn’t work—this wasn’t going to work.

All rationality scattered to the wind, Bucky wheeled around and darted in the direction of the alley, completely bypassing it in a fit of mindless terror. Footsteps followed him—or was it a freight train? The noise was deafening and rhythmic, so he figured either would have been as likely as the other if not for the reality that there definitely wasn’t anyone capable of operating a train around here. But that didn’t matter. That was stupid, and he needed to stay _focused_! Now wasn’t the time to lose it; the stomping of his pursuers was rattling his brain, but he had to keep it from knocking too hard against the inside of his skull and remember what was at stake here.

That, at least, wasn’t hard. He could practically see their outstretched hands behind his back and feel his distance from them lessening even as he gained ground—which wouldn’t last forever, given that he was sandwiched in the middle of two groups and the ones in front of him were turning and they saw him and _they were coming he wasn’t going to make it he was going to die here after everything that had happened—_

He was running headlong off a cliff, a cliff with clawing hands and vaguely famished gazes—

The buildings loomed around him, their windows dispassionately watching for his gruesome fate to be decided—

…Or not.

Someone in the vast expanse of the universe must have liked him, because there was one last alcove standing between him and his seemingly inevitable expiration, and neither parasitic contingent had reached it yet.

Reneging on his determination not to utter a few well-earned obscenities, Bucky dove into the shadow of the nondescript skyscraper on his right. There wasn’t much space to maneuver among the two pillars and the glass doors they decorated, but it would do. He hoped.

From the outside, there was no sign or other indication of what had actually been in this building prior to science fiction overachieving worldwide, but at this point, he couldn’t care less. This had turned into a game of lesser evils. He would either die out here or die in there—one or the other. If he bought himself another five minutes, that was all he could hope for; he wouldn’t have made it this far if he didn’t wholeheartedly believe that. Of course, it didn’t matter anyway. If the place had been occupied like so many others when the code red went out, the doors would be locked and he’d have no shot of breaking through the thick (and probably bulletproof) glass with just his backpack. Still, his brain was telling him that it was worth a try. Until it gave up the ghost with a parasite all his own, he’d continue to listen to it. Doing so hadn’t steered him wrong yet. Well, not _much_.

Fate was seemingly agreeable to that arrangement, at least temporarily. The door was open when he yanked hard on the polished silver handle, which could have meant any number of terrible things. Hosts inside, _idiots_ inside—who knew? Bucky wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, though, and dove through without hesitation, pulling the door shut behind him. It wouldn’t hold up, not against the collective weight of what was following him, so he didn’t waste a second in peering around at his surroundings for anything that might lend him even a slight advantage. A lobby, and a swanky one at that, with an unmanned receptionist’s desk through another glass entrance wasn’t exactly what he would call the most useful in this situation. The room was sparse, mostly empty space for people to stand and watch the screens lining each wall, but there were a couple of leather sofas and chairs in one corner that caught his eye.

_Those could work. Just need t—_

Bucky jerked forward as the door behind him shuddered unexpectedly, gaping at the countless Hosts piling up on the other side of the transparent barrier. He must have pissed them off with his quick getaway, because they were actually making some noise for a change: absentminded grunts of exertion rose eerily above the assemblage as their fingers attempted to scratch through the invisible panes standing between them and dinner. That should have had him retreating; it should have sent him running into the building to get as far from them as possible. Even so, Bucky merely stood there for a long moment, watching in fascinated terror. The creatures at the front of the crowd glared at him greedily without a care for how they were being crushed against the wall by the ones packing into the space behind them. He was well aware that this wasn’t the time to get all sentimental, yet their efforts were mesmerizing nevertheless. As much as they obviously wanted to hurt him—and as likely as they were to hurt each other in the process—there was no real malice in the horrific tableau at all. Rather, there was a strange, almost musical uniformity to it, like a dance that only they were privy to—one of hunger and fleeting satisfaction and blood and insatiable desire. Even in their diversity, they were all the same: the businesswoman in her fraying dress, the teenager in a stained Starbucks apron, the guy who was barely covered by the tattered remains of his gym gear, the little boy who couldn’t have been out of elementary school yet. They weren’t so different from one another like this.

They weren’t so different from all the nameless, faceless civilians who had ended up dead overseas either.

Another reverberating slam against the glass knocked him out of his reverie, and Bucky roughly shook his head as if that might send the memories flying. There was no time to ponder the existence of the worse-than-dead or their predecessors—there was simply making sure he didn’t join them. Not just yet. He had work to do first.

The second set of doors into the atrium wasn’t locked either, and Bucky threw his backpack to the floor to prop them open as best he could. There wasn’t exactly anyone else he could ask for help, so he was going to have to get creative here. Moving furniture wasn’t easy on your own, but it was especially difficult when you only had one good arm to work with.

Cursing that IED for possibly the trillionth time in the last three years, Bucky leaned against the far end of a couch that didn’t look like it had seen much action and shoved until, with a great deal of resistance, it began to slide across the faux wooden floor towards the entrance. Sweat was dripping down his temples as he struggled to shift it just right so that it wouldn’t get stuck on the doorjamb; his spine ached, and his left arm was trembling from the strain he hadn’t put it through in longer than he cared to think about. Ultimately, it wasn’t for nothing: the sofa barely fit into place, catching on his backpack before he kicked it aside, and he was able to maneuver the leather monstrosity so that it blocked both gradually cracking doors to the street. Running back into the lobby despite his heaving chest and unsteady legs, he did the same with another couch and a matching chair in slow order, somehow managing to haul the latter up to brace it against the glass right in front of the thickest part of the crowd. In different circumstances, he would have been marginally impressed.

These weren’t different circumstances, though, and that was as far as he got before he slumped against his leaning tower of metal and fabric, scrambling to catch his breath and mentally whip himself into shape. There were other pieces of furniture, other heavy articles he could use to fortify the existing structure if he could get his body to pull its weight for a few more minutes. He simply needed to convince his feet that he could haul them around like he had the rest.

Which, apparently, was too much to ask. They ignored his silent commands to move, and his entire body was shaking so hard that he couldn’t tell what was the Hosts and what was his exhausted muscles. Bucky hated to admit it, but there was no way he could secure the door any further in this condition, not if he intended to get out of here as well. Calculated risks, acceptable losses, foregone contingencies—he could handle that stuff. Running himself ragged with a crowd of hungry vultures outside? Yeah, that didn’t really qualify.

Nodding resolutely, Bucky staggered backwards and frowned as he surveyed his work. It wasn’t _great_ , and he figured the makeshift barricade wouldn’t hold forever if his assailants were desperate enough, but it would hopefully slow them down while he came up with a Plan B. That would have to do.

For the time being, he was getting as far as he damn well could from those doors. Maybe they would forget about him and go about their business if he wasn’t on display. Out of sight, out of mind and all that. It worked with babies, right?

So, wobbling slightly, Bucky slipped his backpack into place once again and retreated to the receptionist’s desk to scavenge anything that could possibly be of use. In the past, he had been able to sniff out some stale junk food or an abandoned bottle of water just about anywhere; he occasionally got lucky and stumbled across the moldy remains of expensive catering that someone believed wasn’t worth saving. People didn’t tend to think about what they left behind, which was perfect for guys like him, who lived off the stuff. Thieving was never his style before or after he’d gotten back to the States, so he and some of the other homeless schmucks with any integrity tended to scout their surroundings for things that wouldn’t be missed instead. It was amazing how much of it there was if you knew what to look for and weren’t too picky about hygiene.

Whoever worked the desk, however, seemed to have been either a clean freak or a survivalist. Nothing was left out for him to pilfer, and Bucky would have been more ticked off about it if his eyes didn’t pause on something he never would have expected to see in some run-of-the-mill office building.  

_Would you get a load of that_ , he mused silently, running his hand over the glowing display before him. It looked like something out of _Star Trek_ : there was a panel behind the counter where only the receptionist would see, and the myriad commands were lit up with every function imaginable. There were silent alarms (five of them, _holy shit, what kind of place is this?_ ), spectrums for the lights, camera operations, climate control for each floor, helicarrier access pads (whatever _that_ meant) and even…

Tapping one of the touchscreen squares curiously, Bucky watched in awe as the doors separating him from the Hosts fogged over until he couldn’t see them and, presumably, _they_ couldn’t see _him_. That wasn’t all, either: when he hit the command next to it, he heard the loud metallic _clank_ of a lock sliding home—and a heavy duty one at that.

“Son of a bitch,” he murmured, equal parts impressed and apprehensive. New York businesses were smart enough to take their security seriously, but this was going a little overboard. It was so far outside the realm of average or even advanced protection that it had the hair on the back of his neck standing on end in suspicion.

The sensation intensified when he registered for the first time that the lights were actually _on_ here. Well, he’d _noticed_ earlier; he had made it a habit to scrutinize his surroundings long ago. It was a soldier thing. As such, it hadn’t escaped him that it was brighter in the lobby than it should have been, although he hadn’t bothered considering what that meant when he was too absorbed in the task of keeping the Hosts at bay. Now that he had a moment to breathe, the implications were what set him on edge more than anything else. It had been well over a month since he’d found anywhere that still had electricity—shortly after the president gave his warning, the power grids had gone down all over the city. He wasn’t sure if that was a local problem and maybe whoever worked the stations in New York had fled, but the fact remained that the city that never slept had never been so dark in Bucky’s memory. Here, however, it looked like he might have walked in on a workday, lights on and televisions full of static as they tried and failed to connect to a station that was broadcasting during their present apocalypse. That had stopped just before the electricity, and Bucky wasn’t surprised to see that the screens weren’t picking anything up. He doubted that whatever this place was had its own television networks on top of everything else. The relative _normality_ of the situation didn’t put his mind at ease, though. On the contrary, it merely added to the unnerving atmosphere that the abandoned lobby had already exuded. In the other refuges he’d been fortunate to locate, it at least looked the part of this whole _end of the world_ scenario. There were toppled shelves and overturned furniture; windows were broken where people had been too impatient to recognize that doing so left them open to attack from more than merely the Hosts. That had become the new norm, in Bucky’s mind. To anyone else, anyone with a house and a job and a life that revolved around a functioning society, that probably wasn’t the case. To him, it was simply more of the same that he’d been dealing with for three years, so running into a building that was behaving as if things were okay? That was the _real_ aberration here.

He wouldn’t stay. He’d case a few floors for spots to rest and gather supplies, and then he was out of here at first light. Hopefully the Hosts would dissipate a bit by then.

If they didn’t… He’d cross that bridge when he got there.

With that plan in mind—or what passed for one, anyway—Bucky straightened his shoulders and set to work. Triage was the name of the game these days, which required securing his temporary haven from here and working his way up. That would ensure that if or when he ran into trouble, he wouldn’t have to worry about his six. His twelve o’clock already had plenty to deal with as it was.

_Let’s get a move on._

Leaning over the panel again, Bucky skimmed across the various functions until he found the controls for the lights and monitors around the foyer (because of course there was a command for that, too). It probably wasn’t necessary to turn everything off; if anyone else was here, it could alert them to his presence in the event that his noisy pursuers hadn’t. Regardless, he felt more comfortable with his surroundings when the lights were dimmed to their lowest setting and the nearly imperceptible buzzing of the snowy screens was muted. They were superfluous stimuli that were more likely to mask potential threats than comfort him with white noise. Once they were out of the picture, it was a hell of a lot easier for Bucky to close his eyes and just _listen_. Hosts weren’t the loudest creatures when you didn’t piss off a whole crowd of them, but if you were attuned to your senses, there were ways of picking them up before they were picking the flesh off your bones.

In this case, he admittedly thought it might be a bit more difficult: a single storefront didn’t have anywhere near as many places for danger to lurk. Sound would only carry so far in a building like this, and the faint and dwindling banging of the Hosts still trying to get to him from outside was a constant distraction. He didn’t _think_ he heard anything coming from further inside, but that meant very little—he hadn’t heard the mess he’d walked into until he was right on top of it, after all. Still, he stood a better chance in here than he did out there, so he wasn’t about to complain. The entrance was as secure as it was going to get, and there was a lot of real estate here to scout. He couldn’t waste precious daylight with paranoia.

Sparing one final glance for the locked doors, Bucky deftly slipped his knife back out of its sheath and started down the hall behind the lobby. If the lights had been left on, then it was a distinct possibility that someone was home; Bucky just hoped that whoever it was would be friendly and accommodating rather than ready to throw out the homeless guy in desperate need of a shower and a nap.

The weird part was that he met no one. Everything was deathly silent except for the quiet tap of his boots against the tile floor. His rhythmic footsteps and less than even breathing echoed deafeningly off the sterile walls, creating phantoms where there weren’t any and shadows at the edges of his vision that didn’t really exist. Instead, there were offices on either side of the corridor, but when he tentatively knocked, there was no telltale scuffle to say that they were occupied by a fellow person or worse. Even as he eased open the door to the staircase at the end of the hall and peeked inside, he found nothing—no Hosts, no afflicted, no refugees. From the looks of things, he thought he might just be by himself.

_Don’t count on it,_ he sighed internally. Luck only got him so far before it was pulled out from under his feet like a tacky rug, so he didn’t trust it. He’d learned that lesson the hard way and didn’t relish the idea of repeating the course.

There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that the staircase was the best option he had despite the obvious drawbacks. Elevators relied on electricity, and if the heavy-duty generators this building obviously employed ran out of steam while he was inside, that would be the end of that. There was a damn good reason why they said to take the stairs if there was a fire; Bucky had side-eyed plenty of rules in his day, but that wasn’t one he questioned overmuch. However, that didn’t mean he was completely comfortable with the alternative. Peering into the shadows, he could tell that there weren’t any windows in the stairwell; if he ran afoul of anyone or anything else, the dim bulbs that dotted the walls at intervals wouldn’t do much to help him see. For all he knew, the doors to the other floors were sealed, and he’d be locked inside without an exit. Maybe that fancy operation panel at the receptionist’s desk was able to unlock everything, but that was a problem in itself. What if there _was_ something up there? What if there were Hosts further in and they’d evacuated the building just in case one got out? The more he thought about it, the more certain he grew that it wasn’t worth the risk, especially when he had no clue where he’d find their surveillance system to get a better lay of the land.

Drawing a deep breath, Bucky therefore let the door fall closed and, going against his better judgment, doubled back along the corridor to hit the call button for the elevator. Besides the countless threats the enclosed staircase posed, there was no need to expend more energy than he absolutely had to. He was already flagging now that the adrenaline from the last few minutes was beginning to filter out of his system. Plus, he’d take a close-quarters battle in an elevator before he’d risk getting locked in a tomb full of stairs any day. At least then he’d still have one hand on the wheel.

Luckily, there was nothing waiting for him inside when it arrived. The lift was as abandoned as the rest of the ground floor and decorated in much the same fashion: the paneling on the walls matched what they had used in the lobby, and there were even _more_ monitors in the corners when he stepped inside. Bucky couldn’t imagine what you’d want a television in an elevator for, but then again, normal people were weird like that. They didn’t know how to sit in silence without their phones or a newspaper; they couldn’t stand the thought of being stuck with another human being and not having a distraction to keep them from possibly striking up a conversation. Not for the first time, he couldn’t help thinking that whoever operated this building wouldn’t have lasted a day out on the streets where your best form of entertainment was placing imaginary bets on how long it would take for a stray McDonald’s cup to get flattened by a car after some jerk dropped it in the middle of the road.

Rolling his eyes, Bucky brushed his bitterness aside and paused to examine the elevator operations instead. Those days were long gone, and the people he was mentally ridiculing probably were as well. He would be better served by formulating a strategy.

Like which floor he should start on when there were over _fifty_ to choose from.

_Figures, it’s a skyscraper_ , he inwardly groaned. Admittedly, he could have found a taller building; there was no shortage of them in Manhattan. When you were on your own, though, it was all the same whether he was dealing with fifty levels or five hundred—it would take him forever to explore regardless.

So, he wouldn’t. There was a snowball’s chance in hell that he’d be able to search everywhere or guarantee that there were no threats lurking on the upper levels. He’d simply have to cross his fingers ( _again_ ), hope he hadn’t ticked off the big guy upstairs recently, and pray that the floor he picked was uninhabited.

_All right. Don’t mess this up, Barnes._

It was a gamble, but Bucky only hovered for a second over the number _twenty_ before he depressed the button and the doors slid shut. Back in Afghanistan, they’d operated on a system. It was necessary when you never knew where you were going to end up or how many bombs would be waiting for you to arrive. While Hosts weren’t explosive (that he knew of, anyway), the logistics were the same: never the ground, never the top. If you were on the ground floor, you had nowhere to go but up, and that was only if the entire building didn’t land on you in the process. If you were at the top, you had nowhere to retreat at all unless you wanted to go _splat_ against the street below. The middle, or as close as he could get, was the most strategic location to take shelter. You had two options for a quick getaway with plenty of alternatives once you made it to another floor. If all the other floors were compromised, well, you were screwed regardless and nothing you did was going to matter.

The part of Bucky that had never _really_ come home from the war was almost positive that that was exactly what he’d find when the elevator pinged to alert him that he’d reached his destination. His shit luck practically dictated it, and he lowered his stance in anticipation of a potential attack with his back up against the wall. Maybe his left arm was garbage and his legs were quivering beneath him from the workout they’d gotten today; maybe his perpetual hunger had robbed him of the musculature that definitely would have come in handy right about now. Maybe he was a lot of things that he wasn’t exactly proud of, but he was also a fighter. He’d go down swinging if that was what it came to.

The doors opened to reveal yet another empty corridor, though, and he lowered his knife a fraction as he stepped cautiously into a much wider hall than the one downstairs. The size wasn’t the only departure from the established norm either: it appeared that they had hired someone else to do the decorating up here, it varied so thoroughly. If Bucky didn’t know any better, he’d say he was in a different building altogether. The interior wall was sterile white tile that clashed with the warmer tones he’d seen below; it lent a distinctly polished yet detached air to the place, especially when the light filtering in through the floor-to-ceiling windows where they were set in industrial steel framing along the outside of the structure did nothing to truly brighten it up. The overall atmosphere was dimmer than the lobby, the glass tinted on this level to keep its occupants from going blind when they were towering over the buildings that blotted out the sun from the street level, and the dark accents in the two-tone floor made it feel more foreboding than welcoming. Everything was so neutral that Bucky wasn’t sure if he’d walked into an office suite or an HGTV renovation, although he figured it was exactly the sort of thing people with an insane amount of security and too much money on their hands would have: no personality.

_At least it’s not a goddamn eyesore like the Stark atrocity,_ he reasoned with himself. That was one thing he’d give whoever owned this building, if only one. There were few structures in this city that he hated more than Stark Tower, which had to be the biggest, ugliest blight on the skyline that he’d ever had the misfortune of seeing. Most people didn’t mind it, preferring to take solace in the fact that they had an honest-to-God superhero standing by in the most powerful city in the world, but Bucky begged to differ. He’d been in the line of fire; he’d used Stark’s weapons and had them used _on_ him, as well. That guy wasn’t a hero so much as an opportunist, as far as he was concerned. Anyone who designed what basically boiled down to a giant monument to their wealth and influence using cash they’d made off the suffering of others? Yeah, he wouldn’t call them a hero. He had a few other choice phrases for it, but none of them included that word. With balls that size, though, it was no wonder Stark had constructed the most ridiculous building in the continental United States. By comparison, this was relatively sedate. He simply hoped it would be easier to navigate too.

Glancing in both directions, Bucky supposed it didn’t really matter which he chose and started down the hall to the left, shying away from the windows to hug the inner wall. He wasn’t sure if Hosts would be smart enough to look up, having never taken refuge in a multi-story building before, but he wasn’t eager to find out. The last thing he wanted to do was antagonize them when he was already painfully aware of how much glass there was in this building to be broken.

Like the first floor, there was no response when he knocked on the doors here either. Part of him half expected to hear the telltale _thud_ of a body striking the wood paneling, hinting at the Host beyond so that he wouldn’t have to keep guessing. That would have been more reasonable than the disconcerting silence. In a place this size, it just seemed strangely convenient that there was so much empty space—it didn’t make sense. This was the kind of building he figured people would have flocked to in the early days of the crisis, yet he was beginning to get the feeling that he was the only person here.

_Spoke too soon._

Bucky tried the handle to the stairwell entrance, frowning when it refused to budge. Well, _that_ was new, not to mention creepy in the extreme. On one hand, he was relieved that he hadn’t decided to use the stairs; there was a keycard swipe at the side of the door, which meant he would have been caught inside with no way to proceed besides retracing his steps to the ground floor. The other hand had Bucky’s stomach sinking somewhere into the region of his lower intestines. Most buildings would have this sort of mechanism on the _offices_ , not the only emergency route they could utilize, and he doubted that anyone had gone to the trouble of locking up since the front doors had been left wide open. That being said, he had to wonder whether there had been a method to this particular brand of madness. Had whoever ran this company wanted to keep something _out_ or keep something _in_? And where the hell _were_ they, anyway?

Not here, that was for sure. Bucky held his breath as he listened for any sign of movement both on his side of the door and in the stairwell. It was futile, however, and he abandoned his efforts after a few minutes where he heard nothing but his own pounding heart. If there was someone else here, and if they _had_ found a reason to barricade themselves inside (that’s what he’d call it as Hosts weren’t likely to use the elevator), then he needed to keep moving. Running afoul of something nasty wasn’t part of the plan.

Pulling away from the door on silent feet, Bucky moved back in the direction of the elevator to check the other end of the hall and put some distance between himself and whatever his imagination concocted in the stairwell. Oddly enough, he hadn’t had that problem outside. Being able to survey the environment made all the difference; he was practically blind up here, in stark contrast to the wider berth that the streets allowed. There were too many doors, too many windows, too many nooks and crannies for the monsters to hide in, both human and Host. The ominous hush was beginning to grate on his already fraying nerves until he was practically buzzing with anxiety and anticipation of…he didn’t know what. In a way, that was sort of ironic: he’d never thought he would get annoyed by a lack of noise when he’d spent most of the last three years grumbling to himself that he wished New Yorkers could be a bit quieter.

_Be careful what you wish for and all that._

Karma must have hated him for something, because it was making him pay for those idle, passing thoughts now. He’d gotten the quiet in spades, but the supplies were another matter. None of the other offices on this floor were unlocked, and while it was somewhat comforting that they also didn’t appear to be occupied either, his frustration was approaching its zenith. The whole point of exploring was to find stuff that he could use, stuff that would keep him alive just a little longer since it was becoming increasingly obvious that this new reality was here to stay. Bucky didn’t have time for failed endeavors, yet that was precisely what this haul—or lack thereof—was turning out to be.

_There’s gotta be a cafeteria in here somewhere,_ he reasoned. _A place like this should have canned goods for decades._

If no one had made off with them. That was always a possibility.

It didn’t pay to be negative, though, so Bucky shrugged that hopeless notion aside before it could clutch him too tightly. In his experience, being negative got you killed; being positive meant you were in denial about just how far up shit creek you were. That was why Bucky was a realist. After everything, it was impossible not to be. Realists viewed the world through a special lens, one that neglected to color their surroundings in a more appealing light so that they could see the good and the bad for themselves. Recognizing that there was a little of both no matter where you turned, in every situation and contingency? That was called ingenuity. That was called _survival_. As such, he wouldn’t allow himself to believe that there was nothing to be gained in this instance—it was purely a matter of finding it.

On another floor. Definitely on another floor.

Sighing in resignation, Bucky was about ready to cut his losses and double back to the elevator when he approached a set of double doors near the end of the hall to his right—a set that didn’t have knobs, but _handles_.

_I wonder…_

Mentally crossing his fingers, Bucky held his breath as he reached out an unsteady hand to tug experimentally on the right-side door.

It opened.

Swiftly, almost reflexively, he shoved it closed and leaned all his weight against it with a quiet curse. Whoever had sealed the stairwell either hadn’t been as concerned with this room or hadn’t expected anything inside to leave this floor. Those were the only explanations Bucky could fathom for why this door, out of all the others, had been left unlocked. In the latter case… Well, in the latter case, he was screwed. _Royally_ screwed. If there _was_ something waiting to sample his flavor on the opposite end of the flimsy metal that was propping him up, then there was no chance he’d be able to keep it contained on his own—the door opened outward. He therefore had two options: take the risk in order to scout around or find something to barricade the entrance just to be safe.

That thought had Bucky scoffing at himself. He’d apparently made it to the end times, for heaven’s sake. Playing it safe was _not_ the way to approach anything anymore.

_Okay. In we go._

Decision made, Bucky drew a deep breath, closed his eyes, and slammed his fist against the doors as hard as his bad arm would allow. It was enough to suit his purposes, even if his shoulder ached at the effort as his weakened limb fell to his side immediately afterward. The clanging of flesh against metal reverberated off the tacky tile walls all around him, rattling his brain until he cringed. Making too much noise was _also_ not something you wanted to be doing these days.

Nevertheless, it couldn’t be helped or revoked. He’d unfortunately learned that the most effective method of getting yourself killed also doubled as the most effective method of determining what you were walking into; at this point, it was a gamble he had no choice but to accept, and he wasn’t disappointed. Relief flooded his chest when he didn’t hear anything beyond the door—no ominous scuffing of shoes or hissing breaths or a sudden and overwhelming pressure against the other side of the barrier. There was just more of the same: silence, unbroken as the echoes of his test bled away. That, at least, gave him some small measure of confidence. Whatever lay inside, it (probably) didn’t want to eat his brain…and everything else he had to offer.

Bucky wasn’t an idiot, though. Experiments weren’t foolproof, nor were his plans. You didn’t have to be a genius of Stark proportions to know that.

So, he didn’t relax. He didn’t let the quiet lull him into a false sense of security when there was none to be found here or anywhere else. Instead he held his knife at the ready as he slowly pulled open the door on the left, his arm struggling with even that inconsequential weight, and slipped into the room.

Now, New York was a funny place. Always had been, even when he was a kid growing up in Brooklyn. The people could be the rudest, most callous on the planet. They’d shove you into traffic if it meant getting to their destination thirty seconds sooner. Cars collided day and night, accompanied by shouted profanities and folks flipping each other the bird as if it was their own language specific to the city. In a sense, it sort of was. New Yorkers did things at their own pace, in their own time, and had no patience for anyone who couldn’t keep up—but they came together like no one’s business in a conglomeration of diversity that was unparalleled. You could get on the subway and float through a sea of business suits, school uniforms, costumes, casual clothes, risqué clubbing outfits, and pretty much every improbable combination of everything and anything. You stopped asking _why_ because, more often than not, you didn’t want to know.

That was what Bucky had to remember when he stepped through the door to discover…he wasn’t sure _what_ inside. Whoever owned this building was obviously a bit of a freak, though, because this seriously didn’t fit with the rest of the décor at _all_.

Unlike the ultramodern furnishings in the corridor, this space was oddly industrial. There were no windows here, the only illumination coming from overhead fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling; they cast a shadow on the mostly empty room, painting what he assumed were white walls a twilight blue. The sole divergence from the clinical, almost militarily uniform chamber was something like a movie backdrop of the city—two of them, set perpendicular around what appeared to be the most awkwardly positioned storage closet ever. Bucky ignored that for the time being, however, to examine the scenery a bit closer. The images were more like the New York from a few decades ago that featured prominently in all the old films they played on specialty channels or Netflix, but he recognized Manhattan nonetheless. Possibly the strangest part was that they weren’t dominated by the bright colors or lights he was accustomed to seeing on a daily basis, or _had_ been. Rather than the vibrant city that used to exist outside, the pictures were watered down in an almost unrealistic sepia.

_What the hell is all this?_

That was a question he doubted he’d find an answer to, especially when he tore his gaze from the New York of the ages to examine the rest of his meager surroundings. It was certainly minimalist, to put it mildly: there was no furniture, just a concrete floor and the outer frame of the…whatever it was in the middle of the room. The latter stretched all the way to the distant ceiling, closed up and silent and completely unmarked by so much as a hint of what it housed. As Bucky circled around the outside, eyes scanning every inch for a clue, the oddness of the situation only increased. There was a door and two windows with old-fashioned sheer curtains pulled across them to obscure the view of the inside. Based on the angle, both faced the faux skyline, and Bucky was unspeakably grateful that he wasn’t inside where the uncomfortable sensation of being in another time would have to be inescapable.

At least, that was what he assumed. He wasn’t about to go breaking in to figure out whether he was right. The door was locked, and when he knocked, there was no answer—that was more than enough exploring for him. Odds were that it was some kind of mechanical storage room or a scientific lab or a torture chamber or a retro porn set or something he didn’t really need to be poking at. He was after supplies; his desperation was limited to whatever would help him survive. Plowing into this weird excuse for a silent movie stage when there were plenty of other floors to search wasn’t on his agenda.

As soon as that occurred to him, Bucky stopped and peered out into the corridor through the doors he’d left open in case he needed to beat a hasty retreat. The light was waning fast, and he didn’t want to think about how much time he’d spent combing over this floor already—or, more appropriately, how much time he’d _wasted_. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go, but he still mentally reprimanded himself for not being more productive. Now the sun was setting, casting pink and orange streaks across the sky as if there were still people around to appreciate it when the world was going to shit, and another day was passing.

Technically, he could keep going. He probably _should_ have kept going. After all, this was hardly a secure location. Bucky hadn’t verified that it was as deserted as it seemed, a mistake he’d seen too many people make since he’d enlisted and wasn’t keen on imitating. Nevertheless, he sighed heavily and dumped his backpack in the corner furthest from the doors. The other inconvenient benefit of being a soldier was that he was painfully aware of his own body’s abilities and limitations, the latter of which were approaching quickly. His left arm was burning where it hung limply at his side, having expended its minimal amount of assistance for one day, and he could feel his sweat drying in an uncomfortable yet familiar crust beneath his clothes. At the same time, a tiny yet piercing headache had nested at the base of his skull as an insistent reminder that he may not have slept in the last two days. It wasn’t that he _avoided_ sleep—he wasn’t one of those vets who came back with PTSD and all that crap—but it was impossible to settle himself sometimes. If it wasn’t the constant vigilance required in the face of an ever-growing number of Hosts, it was the nightmares that still plagued him from his years in the desert, all of which had adapted to include the grotesque silhouettes of the zombies that beleaguered mankind during his waking hours.

That was okay, though. Nightmares didn’t PTSD make, right?

_Right. I’m just fine._

That had become his mantra, although he wasn’t sure when. Perhaps when he had been recovering in the hospital or maybe during the long nights he’d spent hopping from shelter to shelter in search of a free bed? He couldn’t remember. Regardless, Bucky had inwardly repeated it more often than he felt comfortable recalling, and he did it again as he pulled off his jacket and finally shut the door to the hallway. There wasn’t a whole lot more he could do to secure the room any further if he was going to get any sleep. In fact, it was already sheltered enough that he thought he might _actually_ be able to manage a couple of hours. The walls were impregnable without windows providing an access point to potential hostiles; the door opened from his end, which meant no Hosts would be getting in and he’d hear them if they somehow congregated outside. Everything beyond the confines of this room had been locked down tighter than his CO’s ass, and Hosts didn’t exactly have the kind of critical thinking skills required to work an elevator.

He was in a defensible position. He was as safe as he could hope to be. He was completely alone.

It wasn’t a comforting thought, but then again, he was used to that by now.

As Bucky crammed himself into the corner with his bag, the doors within his sight in case he needed a quick exit, he put the pervasive loneliness out of his mind to focus on the fact that he was _exhausted_. That seemed to be the story of his life most of the time: being alone and being bone-weary, like his very existence was a battery and he’d left the charger in the desert.

It helped slightly to remember that there were worse things, most of them lurking in the streets and waiting to pounce. Yeah, Bucky prided himself on being a fighter and a survivor. If that meant going it alone, well…company was overrated anyway. Attachments were a recipe for disaster; working with a unit was more likely to get you killed than navigating a solo mission. His chances of making it out of the city in one piece were exponentially greater like this, and that was all that mattered.

_I’m just fine. I’m just fine._

_I’m just fine._

With that thought in mind, Bucky slipped into a fitful doze, braced for his nightmares just like every other minute of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note: more about the actual cause of the affliction will be introduced later in the story. For now, we're stuck with what Bucky knows, which is exceedingly little. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Into the Unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. I thought I would be able to get this chapter up before I went out of town, but life had other plans for me. Just a bit of a warning: there is some violence and bloodshed in this chapter.

Death wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Steve Rogers had stared death in the face on more than one occasion. It was almost a familiar friend at this point, endlessly waiting to shake hands and catch up on lost time. He recognized it everywhere, had spotted it hovering over men on the battlefield and speaking to them in hushed tones as it stole the breath from their lungs and the rhythm from their hearts. There was no mistaking its presence, whether it came for the myriad soldiers whose families would never see them again or the Hydra agents who didn’t deserve the kindness with which it would carry them away, and Steve considered himself an expert in reading the signs that it left behind. After all, they were tough to miss. Death was a cold void full of chaos and anguish; it was every terrible thing you could imagine all rolled into one eternal pain. It had stalked him in numerous instances, before _and_ after the serum, leaving its mark on his memory until he could identify it by the mere scent that traveled in its wake. Random bouts of influenza, winters of pneumonia, summers of asthma, years of getting into fights and confrontations and any other scenario that had him staring down the arm of a bully or the barrel of a gun—it all reeked of mortality and tasted of the end.

Death was distinctive. Steve would know it anywhere. That, as a matter of fact, was how he came to the realization that this wasn’t it.

Death wasn’t soft. Death wasn’t warm. Death wasn’t quiet.

Whatever existed beyond his closed eyelids _was_.

As awareness began to prick at his senses, Steve registered a few things at once. For starters, he was lying down, and not on the metal grating he would have expected. Whether it was another helpful side-effect of the serum or purely a stroke of luck, he didn’t have any trouble recalling what had happened: he’d been on the Valkyrie, and he’d put it in the water to protect the millions of people Schmidt had tried to decimate with the rest of New York. When he’d gone under, he was in the pilot’s seat wishing that there was some other way like Peggy said only to come up blank. Bracing for impact, the shock of an uncontrolled landing, the icy chill that settled into his bones—it was all clear as day in his head, tormenting him with images he’d never be able to forget and reminding him that there hadn’t been anything _soft_ about it. The Red Skull wasn’t the kind of guy to focus on coziness; Nazis, particularly the even _more_ insane ones that Hydra employed, were like that. Therefore, the interior of his aircraft had been nothing but metal and bolts, allowing no quarter for the thin yet comfortable cushion beneath him. That, too, was a mystery. By all accounts, he figured he should be draped over a control panel or impaled on the glass that had separated him from the arctic water that flooded the cabin after it shattered. The reality was entirely different, though, impossibly so. If it weren’t for the whirlwind of the last few days and the clarity with which he could visualize every single second, Steve would have thought he had fallen asleep in his bunk and dreamed the whole thing. That would have been an apt explanation for the warm, slightly stale air and the dim golden glow that reached out to him well before he decided to open his eyes, anyway. It was definitely a hell of a lot more comforting than the alternative.

For a long moment, Steve didn’t make any move to dispel the illusion of safety that drifted over him like the blanket this bed hadn’t come equipped with. It wasn’t some misguided attempt to keep himself from learning the truth of his situation, however—far from it. He was a soldier. He’d led missions into enemy territory. He’d been responsible for his team and every man they managed to liberate along the way. As such, Steve knew that he would need to gather as much information as he could about the lay of the land before he alerted anyone to his waking, especially when there was no telling who his hosts were yet.

So, he bided his time, mentally cataloguing every limb and muscle and tendon to ensure that everything was functioning as Dr. Erskine had guaranteed. As it turned out, the painstaking process wasn’t strictly necessary: Steve felt so normal that it was almost unnerving. They’d been certain that his enhancements would protect him in an emergency and had tested that theory with alarming frequency, but surely there had to be _some_ consequence for crashing a plane. Soreness, stiffness, aches of recent recovery—anything but the fluid smoothness of his joints when he shifted minutely on the mattress. Of course, he wasn’t completely surprised regardless of the fact that he was supposed to be dead right now: Erskine was without doubt the most brilliant scientist of the century. He’d known what he was doing better than anyone else, and Steve had survived so much more than he really should have already as a result. The notion that he had lived through taking down the Valkyrie as well didn’t come as a shock—the idea that he wasn’t somewhere far worse than a fairly comfortable bed with severe injuries was another story.

The possibilities were endless, and they ran through Steve’s head so quickly that it would have left him dizzy before the serum. What if Peggy had somehow calculated his location and sent Howard to get him? What if they’d found the wreckage and pulled him out, believing he was dead until they noticed his chest obviously continued to rise and fall? What if he was back in England, Schmidt defeated and the need for Captain America expired?

Or, conversely, what if it wasn’t the S.S.R. that had discovered him after all?

At that thought, Steve’s blood ran cold. It wasn’t such a long shot to suspect that other entities were more likely to locate him than his allies. Hydra was the Nazi science division for a reason; their technology surpassed anything that even Howard had been able to concoct thus far. Odds were, they had some sort of tracking device on the Valkyrie that would indicate whether it had arrived at its destination—Peggy and Colonel Phillips might not have recognized it. If that was the case and they’d overlooked something that a Hydra operative wouldn’t, then Steve couldn’t afford to waste more time than he already had. He had no idea how long he’d been out, but even five minutes would have been too long in enemy territory. Right now, he needed to get up—he needed to find out where he was—he needed to get _moving_ —

Carefully. Very carefully. If his fears weren’t unfounded, then he wouldn’t have any backup. Super soldier or not, escaping would end badly with no one to watch his six or secure his route.

From the sound of it, that was precisely the situation. There were no voices or footsteps to indicate that anyone else was around; the air hadn’t shifted once since he’d woken up to alert him to another presence. By all accounts, he increasingly believed that he might just be alone. Unfortunately, that didn’t inspire a lot of confidence: he could have been tossed into some sort of cell or lab, in which case it was to be expected that no one would be there. It wasn’t like they would have anything to do until he woke up. Besides, nobody had bothered to restrain him, so whoever had left him here clearly wasn’t worried about him attempting to flee. Either they’d reinforced whatever doors separated him from the outside world, or they had no clue who he was.

Was it too optimistic to hope for the latter?

Whether it was or not, the war had taught Steve that anticipating the worst was more prudent than treading through life as if everything was going to go according to plan. He’d been expecting to make that date with Peggy, not crash a plane and end up…wherever he was. He’d been expecting to return home at the end of the war, having performed his duty as a soldier and a human being. He’d been expecting—no, _hoping—_ to start a life with someone when he made it back.

This wasn’t part of the plan. Not by a long shot.

Maybe that was why, when he heard it, Steve threw caution to the wind. Maybe that was why he clenched his fists at his sides and finally opened his eyes to an empty room. Maybe that was why he braced himself for enemy agents to storm in, to drag him from the hospital cot they’d provided, to make him wish he’d died in that crash.

Because maybe that shuffling of cloth and nearly imperceptible huff of breath was nothing—or maybe it was every answer he was thirsting for.

Whoever or whatever it was, they weren’t in here with him. Even so, Steve gradually pushed himself upright, his muscles tense and ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. It took every ounce of focus he possessed not to let his surroundings distract him from the matter at hand, though. There was both nothing and everything wrong with this place all at once, and unsettlingly enough, he couldn’t put his finger on what exactly it was.

He was in a hospital room. That much was obvious.

The skyline just barely visible through the curtains was New York. That much was also obvious.

The silence wasn’t a hospital room, though. The silence wasn’t New York. Wherever he was, it certainly wasn’t where whoever had found him wanted him to think.

And he could only surmise that person was the one he could just barely hear nearby.

Not for the first time, Steve sent up silent word of thanks for the serum. His guard could have been standing right beside him for how easy it was to catch the steady in and out of their breathing from here. He was operating under the assumption that they were a guard, anyway; there weren’t many other reasons he could fathom for them waiting outside. If it was an actual nurse, they should have come in to check on him by now, which meant that they were probably a hell of a lot less charitable than that. Were they monitoring him? Were they waiting to see what he would do when he woke up? Were they hoping to get information out of him and this was all some clever ruse to make him feel comfortable before the questioning began?

The lattermost felt like the most obvious possibility, although he couldn’t quite figure out who would go to the trouble. Captain America was a headliner, a propaganda piece to most people and an impressive soldier to the rest—he wasn’t Colonel Phillips. His knowledge of the Allied advances throughout Europe and the Pacific were pretty rudimentary given that his job had been to focus almost exclusively on Hydra. Besides his blood, he had no information about Dr. Erskine’s serum for anybody who wanted to replicate it either, and he wasn’t about to surrender that without a fight regardless. If they were simply looking for money, then they would have gone to greater lengths to limit his opportunity to escape. Anyone that got their hands on Captain America had to understand that he would be worth a hefty ransom if they were able to hold him. That being said, he would have expected to be shackled up with everything they had and dumped in a windowless hole to deter any attempts to flee on his part. Even if he couldn’t, that was only a fraction of the danger they were opening themselves to: they were going to need a lot more security to keep the S.S.R. from hunting down their poster boy.

_Wait… Peggy must think I’m dead_ , he realized, frowning. One of the last things he recalled was talking about going dancing on the radio, their futile optimism staving off their despair at what was actually going to happen, then nothing but cold darkness.

That wouldn’t matter, would it? They’d still look for him if for no other reason than to harvest what they could to unlock the serum’s secrets. They’d still try to locate where the Valkyrie had landed. Howard had the technology to do that much, so maybe it _was_ the S.S.R. that had found him? He wasn’t wearing his uniform—he was dressed in a pair of casual slacks and an S.S.R. shirt. Was it possible that they had discovered where the plane had gone down and maybe—just maybe—it was Peggy outside the room, waiting to see if he was stable enough to visit?

Something resembling hope blossomed in Steve’s chest even as he told himself not to hold his breath. The chances of that were just as slim as being found at all, although that _had_ happened, so perhaps it wasn’t a completely lost cause.

Ultimately, the question of who had brought him here wasn’t anywhere near as important as determining where _here_ was, and his mental vacillating was getting him nowhere fast. So, without sparing another thought for idealistic and unlikely daydreams, Steve slowly slipped off the mattress. It was a miracle that the springs didn’t squeak in relief at not having to carry his impressive weight, though it wouldn’t mean a damn thing if there were cameras in the room. His initial observations indicated that there weren’t, but if this _was_ Hydra he was dealing with, then there was no telling whether they were merely hidden somewhere clever. That was out of his control, however, which meant it wasn’t worth dwelling on. Let his hosts watch—they could enjoy the show.

All things considered—and with a little bit of luck—it would be a boring one.

Steve’s footsteps were barely audible even to his own ears as he approached the door and paused, waiting. For what, he wasn’t sure. Maybe someone would come in now that it was obvious he was awake and prepared to escape; maybe the illusion would fade as soon as he touched the doorknob, and he would discover this whole mirage was his eternal torment for some crime he couldn’t remember committing. Either way, he figured it was better to find out sooner rather than later.

On the bright side, it wasn’t a figment of his imagination. The door was real and reasonably sturdy, as was the knob that refused to turn when he tried it.

_Definitely not a hospital, then,_ he mused silently. He’d been in his fair share of them over the years, and not once had he heard of the nurses locking patients inside their rooms. In fact, he was almost positive there had to be a law against that even in the T.B ward his mom had worked in. They weren’t prisoners, after all.

Not like Steve.

They also weren’t enhanced like him, either. That was one point in his favor, if only one.

Laying his palm flat against the wood, Steve pushed experimentally at the door and smirked. Whoever had found him didn’t know who he was or had overlooked the extent of his abilities, because it bent easily under his hand. He wasn’t optimistic enough to think it was the former, not with all the other oddities that surrounded the situation, but he’d take what he could get. Admittedly, it already wasn’t much: a last glance around the room showed him that his shield was missing, and there was nothing else of value to use as a weapon. In boot camp, they had learned that a good soldier had to know how to improvise, that the most seemingly worthless artifact could be the difference between life and death. A lamp to the head or a pillowcase around the windpipe might provide a distraction to put some distance between yourself and whoever was trying to kill you. Even Steve, who rarely had to resort to those methods, was willing to do what he had to. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have joined up.

Improvisation was harder, though, when the furniture was bolted to the floor. Steve hadn’t noticed that until he squinted around the room in search of anything that might give him more of an edge. With the unknown waiting beyond the door, he didn’t think it was going overboard to make that edge a cliff if he could.

Apparently, someone else had predicted that too. Maybe his captors weren’t as naïve as he’d thought.

_All right. Guess we’re doing this the old-fashioned way._

His guard was in for a surprise, that was for sure. Steeling himself, Steve took a few steps backward, inhaled deeply, and ran straight at the door like the battering ram Dr. Erskine had made him.

The perk of being a super soldier? He didn’t feel the impact at all. While the average person would be nursing a few bruises, Steve tore through the wood as if it were paper. There was practically no resistance, the sole impediment to his progress being his own feet when he tripped over them in his haste. There certainly wasn’t anything else out here to stumble over. The dim, concrete room he plowed into was devoid of furniture and light and people—

Except the guy gaping at him from the corner.

Neither of them moved, frozen in a tableau of uncertainty as they waited to see what the other would do. In Steve’s case, his eyes were trained on this enemy operative he didn’t recognize, scanning him for any sign he was about to pull out a weapon or run. The latter was certainly the more sensible course when you were staring down Captain America—get out of there and call for backup. This guy opted not to, although whether that made him courageous or foolish, Steve assumed they’d find out.

One thing was becoming increasingly obvious as the seconds ticked by, however: his adversary wasn’t about to make the first move. His muscles were taut, and he was clearly prepared to bolt at a moment’s notice, yet he remained utterly still instead. That left the ball in Steve’s court to get it rolling.

Straightening to his full height, he used every ounce of his stature (and some of Colonel Phillips’s) to demand, “Where the hell am I?”

The other man—his _warden_ , Steve presumed—didn’t respond. His complete lack of a reaction actually had Steve wondering for a second if the guy had heard him in the first place. Any other agent (Hydra or otherwise) would have at least done _something_ , but this one simply stared. He didn’t call to whoever might be watching from afar; he didn’t so much as _flinch_ when Steve took an aborted step towards him. His gaze didn’t waver for an instant as he used the wall to leverage himself onto his feet from where he’d been sitting, oddly enough, on the _floor_.

Steve had to admit that he had been expecting something a bit more professional, or perhaps just a bit more _Hydra_ , in a facility that clearly had the resources to construct the sort of arrangement that he had woken up to. Advanced weaponry, overkill body armor, a fleet of guards—the standard fare when they infiltrated a base wouldn’t have been foreign here, especially when they were holding a super soldier captive. The man who observed him in deafening silence was so ordinary that Steve almost considered asking if he was another prisoner rather than the alternative. He definitely looked the part, though it was always possible that that was what someone wanted him to believe.

If that was their game, then they’d chosen an appropriate candidate. The man opposite him was dressed in stained, fraying jeans and a red long-sleeved shirt of similar wear; his olive drab coat, which was noticeably unadorned by any Hydra or Nazi insignia, lay abandoned at his feet where it seemed that he’d been using it as a blanket before Steve’s sudden emergence had startled him. There was a black backpack on the floor peeking out from behind heavy leather boots that had clearly seen better days, much like their owner. Overall, it wasn’t an impressive picture, and that wasn’t counting his less than imposing stance either. The guy couldn’t have been more than a couple of inches shorter than Steve, although his shoulders were hunched forward so that he appeared smaller than Steve could tell he was. His hair was long enough to reach his shoulders, unkempt and obviously unwashed as it hung in lank curtains on either side of his face; there were circles under his eyes, which were bloodshot from corner to corner. Steve was no expert in the art of abduction, but was it really a smart idea to use a man who was obviously fatigued to stand guard over an imprisoned super soldier?

That wasn’t Steve’s concern, though. The logistics (or lack thereof) in his captors’ plans were moot. The answers to his endless questions were what mattered most. He could ponder the rest once he was back in London recounting this strange story to Peggy.

With that comforting thought in mind, Steve took a few steps closer to the man in the corner, vaguely impressed that he didn’t cower the way a lot of people did when Steve loomed over them. It would have been admirable if he wasn’t positive that his guard’s bravery—or bullheadedness—would only make this impromptu interrogation that much more difficult.

“I’m not gonna ask you again,” he murmured, low and threatening. The other man eyed him warily with a glimmer of something in his gaze that Steve couldn’t identify. “Where am I?”

His captor appeared to weigh the cost of his silence and deem it not at all worthwhile, because a moment later he hesitantly replied, “New York.”

_Not a chance._

It wasn’t possible. There was no way that he would be in a place like this if he was back home. Although he wasn’t a fan of the attention, there was no denying that he was venerated as something of a celebrity from New York to California; between films and his _actual_ accomplishments, his moniker had become a household name. No one could have brought him home without people finding out—it would have been too hard a secret to keep when the S.S.R. hadn’t even been able to hide the fact that Dr. Erskine was working with them on the serum.

This guy had to be lying. His hoarse, gravelly voice may have convinced someone else, but not Steve. He’d seen too many brilliant charlatans in his lifetime, had witnessed what happened when evil people were taken at face value rather than being recognized for the dangers they posed to mankind. Appearances could be deceiving, and the little charade in his _hospital_ room? It didn’t inspire much confidence that his guard was telling the truth.

“Don’t lie to me,” he nearly growled, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

Refusing to be cowed despite his increasingly disadvantageous position, the other man shot back, “I’m _not_.”

_Like hell, you’re not._

“What is this place?” demanded Steve rather than pressing the issue. They could come back to the _where_.

That was his plan, in any case. Then his captor had the gall to sneer, “Your guess is as good as mine, pal.”

Steve didn’t even think. He didn’t pause to consider whether the guy was armed or if a whole platoon would burst through the double doors across the room if Steve laid a finger on him. Rather, he lunged forward, grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, and slammed him up against the wall with as much restraint as he could muster. As appealing as his frustration made pummeling this creep seem, Steve didn’t need him in pieces—he just needed him to _talk_.

That was his first mistake.

The breath whooshed out of the guard’s chest, but his unmoved expression didn’t falter whatsoever. Steve might have given him a playful shove for all that he seemed to register the swift shift in position. There was no pain or surprise or panic to be found in his gaze at all when he raised his left hand for Steve to see the knife. If he thought that was going to make a damn bit of difference, though, he had another thing coming. Of the two of them, Steve was the one who had been fighting a war for the last two years; Steve was the one with enhanced reflexes and strength both on _and_ off the battlefield. Whoever this guy was, he clearly hadn’t seen combat recently, maybe not ever. That was all Steve could assume given the state of his arm, which trembled and jerked even as he attempted to make his threat more substantial. Instead, the guard merely came across as awkward and clumsy—and no match for Steve even _before_ the serum. His strike didn’t get anywhere near Steve’s face before he parried the attack and pinned his wrist against the wall, Steve’s other hand still fisted in the guy’s shirt.

“ _Who are you_?!” Steve shouted in his face, finally losing the tenuous grasp on patience that had gotten him this far. They were close enough now that he could see flecks of spit on his captor’s skin from his outburst and every individual vein in the latter’s reddened, exhausted eyes.

That was his second mistake.

Apparently, he was wrong about this guy not having seen action. That was the only possible explanation for how quickly he was able to drop the knife from his left hand to his right and lash out with surprising strength. Not even Steve’s superhuman speed could counter it in time to avoid the flash of pain that radiated up his forearm. The wound was shallow, hardly more than a paper cut, yet he was taken aback as he watched minuscule beads of blood trickle out of the artificial injury regardless. It had been years since someone had gotten the drop on him, Nazis and bullies alike. When you were imbued with the kinds of abilities that had never existed outside of a comic book before, looking over your shoulder turned into something of an antiquated tradition.

Now, he was starting to regret getting careless, especially when he glanced up to see that the guard had used Steve’s distraction to his own advantage. Honestly, he probably wouldn’t have needed the momentary reprieve anyway: the guy had moved so fast that Steve wasn’t sure he would have been able to recover in time. Unlike him, the other man hadn’t foundered for a second. His backpack was already mounted on his shoulders, the sleeve of his coat was dangling out of the largest compartment, and he was on the opposite end of the room—all while never once showing his back to Steve. Gone was the hesitation and indecision from mere moments ago; for the first time since Steve had barged out of his holding cell, his captor stood tall. In that instant, his meager appearance meant nothing. In that instant, it became obvious that this guy was more than he seemed. He was experienced. He was a professional.

_He’s a soldier._

It struck him suddenly, and just like that, the game changed. Exhaustion and lack of preparation— _if_ that was truly as it seemed—hadn’t blunted the guard’s ability to slip through Steve’s fingers. There was a level of ambiguity there that kept Steve from immediately apprehending him far more effectively than the knife he still held aloft. This man, this agent, was an unknown entity.

And the _unknown_ was one of the greatest threats in existence.

From the looks of things, the other guy wasn’t too keen on him either, which Steve supposed was an intelligent mindset to adopt. He was, after all, once again staring down Captain America like the cornered animal he was. Well, in a sense: with the door at his back rather than Steve’s, he admittedly had enough of an upper hand to practically spit, “Look, pal, I don’t know what your problem is, but you stay the hell away from me.”

That wasn’t going to happen, and the slight whitening of his knuckles as his hand tightened on the handle of his knife indicated that he was inescapably aware of it.

“Not until you give me a straight answer,” Steve retorted, approaching more cautiously now that he had some idea of what his quarry could do. “Where am I, and who _are_ you?”

Steve had to hand it to him: he was good at reading a room. For each of his own measured footfalls, the other guy matched him exactly. It was like a dance, this awkward ballet of demands and darting around, only what happened at the end of it was anyone’s guess. So far, the choreography wasn’t going at all in the direction that Steve had been hoping. It had him maneuvering in the dark while his adversary edged too close to the exit for comfort. That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at _all_.

“I _told_ you,” the guard replied evenly as they moved in tandem, “you’re in New York. And who _I_ am is none of your damn business.”

“This isn’t New York.”

“Yeah, sure, if you say so.”

Another foot. Another.

_Too close._

The game needed to stop— _now_. He’d already allowed it to continue for far too long when he would have been better served by breaking out of here rather than striking up a conversation he’d already suspected wouldn’t get him anywhere.

So, with a shake of his head, Steve mentally calculated how many seconds it would take him to reach the other side of the room as he observed, “If you’re Hydra, you already know how this is going to end.”

If he was being honest, Steve didn’t know what to expect in response. Most of the Hydra agents he’d encountered both at home and abroad weren’t the most loquacious people. They’d sooner swallow a cyanide pill than stick around to chat, and they’d lost a good bit of intelligence that would have brought the war to a close sooner as a result. Did they do that here? Were they prepared to commit suicide at a moment's notice in a facility that was clearly their base of operations? Or had they gotten cocky and deemed it unnecessary when they were still in business—for now? Neither option would have surprised him at this point; they already knew that the bases Schmidt had commissioned were rigged to blow if they were infiltrated beyond hope of escape. Having a super soldier from the enemy’s army on site? Steve was sort of surprised that they hadn’t set the place on fire by now.

In his experience, none of that would have been out of the ordinary. Depending on how desperate the soldiers were or how removed they were from Schmidt’s influence, he’d witnessed any number of interesting reactions to his presence and subsequent victory.

Therefore, it completely threw him off when his warning was met with the guard stopping dead in his tracks, not that he was complaining about that. Even so, Steve couldn’t help mirroring the other man’s frown as the latter stared skeptically at him and outright _scoffed_.

“Hydra?” he snorted, nodding his head with another incredulous bark of laughter. “So, this place is a fancy crazy house, that it? How many other Captain America wannabes they got in here?”

Now it was Steve’s turn to halt, his confusion getting the better of him. “What do you mean, _wannabes_?”

His adversary raised his hands in a placating gesture and replied with the slow cadences of someone speaking to a small child, “Nothing at all. I’m sure you’re a real _hero_. Probably don’t wanna be rooming with a guy like me, so I’ll just get going…”

“You’re not going anywhere!”

Too little, too late.

Seeing his opportunity to get some answers slipping away, Steve launched himself forward and grabbed at the man’s shoulder in vain. He had damn good reflexes for someone who wasn't enhanced, and Steve got his bag to the face before his fingers could gain any real purchase. Where that would have been sufficient for most people, his guard once again surprised him: the air wasn’t quite knocked out of his chest when a heavy, booted foot made contact with his solar plexus, but it was a near thing. The shock of having been thwarted a second time by someone who had seemed so harmless at first glance was what stymied him more than anything else. That, of course, made all the difference. It was just enough of an opening for his adversary to dart through the doors; by the time Steve recovered and was ready to fight back, they were slamming shut behind him.

Steve cursed under his breath and burst through the flimsy metal immediately after, emerging into a dimly lit hallway that did absolutely nothing for the sinking sensation that was gnawing at the bottom of his stomach like a parasite. As with the room he’d left behind and his cell, there was no one here either. The guns he’d half expected to discover pointed straight at his face as soon as he emerged were glaringly absent; nobody was waiting to put him in his place, perhaps with more security than they had felt necessary before. No, it was just as devoid of life out here as it was in the makeshift hospital room he left behind when he sprinted down the corridor, following the harried footsteps that echoed off the walls.

Unfortunately, the serum wasn’t enough of an advantage in this instance. When he reached the elevator, it was to see the doors already sliding shut and obscuring his quarry from view. The more their interactions had evolved, the more certain he had been that calling the guy an _adversary_ might be giving him a little too much credit. After all, one thing had grown increasingly obvious over the course of their poor excuse for a conversation: he wasn’t there to hold Steve captive. In fact, he appeared to have just as many clues as to what was going on as Steve did, which meant that he probably wasn’t one of the people who’d found him—and he definitely wasn’t one of the people who had brought him here.

_But he still knows who I am_ , thought Steve in lingering confusion. While that wasn’t much of a surprise, what _did_ baffle him was why that hadn’t made a difference. Anyone else would have gone out of their way to help Captain America out of a tight spot, not ridiculed him and made a run for it. Then there was the matter of him believing that Steve was some kind of impostor, which… Well, maybe he could understand that. How many people would believe that he was the real Captain America if he walked down the street without his uniform? How many people would even _care_? On a battlefield, he was of use; on a stage, he had a purpose, disconcerting as that was. Out in the world? Most would probably deem him a clever lookalike, nothing more.

In a facility like this, though, he would have thought it might be a more palatable idea. In a facility like this, no one should have been shocked to find the actual Captain America regardless of his circumstances.

_Then why…?_

He didn’t get a chance to think it through as, at the idea of his surroundings, he finally took a good look at them. In a way, the overall aura the building exuded _was_ reminiscent of the Hydra bases he’d visited throughout the war. There was an industrial, futuristic air about the place that felt unreal, like it should be in a science fiction novel instead of an actual structure. Everything was so sterile, so unadorned by the superfluous decorations or extraneous furniture that had made the Allied headquarters a bit more…not _homey_ , but at least less discomfiting. The elevator was similarly plain, little more than a set of reflective metal doors and the tiny black screen situated above them. Actually, that screen was the most remarkable piece of the general image he found himself plastered against: a red number was displayed, counting down with each second he stood attempting to either make sense of this corridor or figure out what his next move should be. He could only assume it meant the elevator was heading towards the ground floor, but…how did they make it _do_ that? It wasn’t _real_ —there weren’t any cards flipping to show the elevator’s descent. Instead, it was like someone had made a number out of light itself and slapped it over the dial that should have been there. Not even the Hydra bases he’d torn down piece by piece had been _that_ advanced, at least not from what he’d seen.

If that was the case, then maybe it wasn’t so hard to believe that he wasn’t where he’d thought he was. Maybe…just maybe…

Swallowing hard, Steve turned and took a few tentative steps toward the windows he hadn’t yet gathered the courage to approach. He almost wished it had stayed that way an instant later.

Because he _was_ in New York. He could recognize it even though the buildings were twice the size they had been before he’d left, covered in enormous posters for Broadway shows he’d never heard of and screens like the one above the elevator. These ones, however, were nothing more than dark squares hovering over an equally lightless city. Night had fallen hours ago from the looks of it, and although that had never made a difference in Manhattan, it seemed that this was the sole exception. Streetlamps weren’t glowing below; none of the windows in the surrounding towers were lit up by their inhabitants. It went beyond simply the lateness of the hour, not that he had a way of telling that either—clocks and the numbers that ran along their edges didn’t matter here. After all, there was a reason they called it the city that didn’t sleep.

This, for all that it appeared to be the same place, was completely different. Never in his life had he seen a totally _dark_ New York. Never had he listened for noise—traffic, talking, the endless tramping of thousands of feet in various directions—and heard nothing. It just wasn’t something that happened. No matter how accustomed the war had made him to London’s black outs and air raids, he’d always counted on the idea that when he went back home, the bright lights of New York City would be waiting for him on his way to Brooklyn. _This_? This was…unnatural. It was _wrong_.

And the only person who could tell him what the hell had happened to cause it was currently getting away.

Setting his jaw, Steve hastily returned to the elevator to find that the seemingly magical display had stopped on three. For a second, he wondered if maybe whatever machine operated it was broken; it was far more likely that his quarry had decided to get out of the building altogether, not run to another floor where Steve could easily hunt him down. Either way, he didn’t give it much thought, peering across the darkened corridor at the illuminated _exit_ sign that pointed towards a staircase. Whether the elevator was in desperate need of servicing or the guy really _was_ foolish enough to stay, Steve had a limited window in which to catch him. He’d already wasted enough time as it was—he needed to move, and fast.

Ordinarily, he would have risked the elevator. It would have been faster than the stairs, especially in the event that he ended up on the wrong floor, yet Steve bypassed it altogether just to be safe. Maybe he was crazy (and considering the circumstances, he wasn’t ruling that out), but given that the lights were dowsed in the city, he didn’t want to take a chance on getting stuck in an elevator even though this building didn’t appear to be affected. If nothing else, it would only slow him down more.

The locked door to the stairs didn’t, and he plowed through it the same way he’d made short work of the entrance to his fake hospital room. Whoever ran this place could worry about fixing the damage; what it cost was none of his concern when he’d been brought here—and _left_ here—against his will. Steve was far more focused on sprinting down the concrete steps, ignoring the orange-tinted lights that flickered in welcome on each landing. They weren’t necessary for his enhanced vision to pick up the plaques that announced every floor in black and silver paint, which was something else he’d need to remember to ask about. He wasn’t sure which he’d started on, but when he spotted the sign for the seventeenth, he couldn’t help blinking in surprise that he immediately tabled for later. Now wasn’t the time to wonder how the hell that elevator had gotten to the third floor that quickly.

_Save it, Rogers._

The serum got him there almost as fast, and he knocked down yet another locked door to find himself in a corridor full of what he assumed were offices. It looked almost exactly the same as the last floor, the sole difference being a huge set of wooden double doors at the end of the hall instead of a blank wall.

Steve wasn’t sure what drew him in that direction, but he knew he was on the right track when every other door he tried wouldn’t open.

He also knew he was going the right way when he heard a loud _bang_ issuing from inside the room at the far end of the corridor.

_Gotcha._

Breaking into a sprint, Steve exploded through the entrance and screeched to a halt at the horrific sight before him.

There were people everywhere, so many that he thought perhaps the entire building had decided to congregate in this one room. That wasn’t what captured his attention, however. No, his eyes didn’t widen at the sheer number that had crammed into this limited space so much as the fact that they didn’t look… _right_. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought that they were refugees in a war zone waiting for extraction. Their clothes, just as strange as what the man he’d encountered had been wearing, were torn and tattered; dried blood covered them from head to toe and was smeared across the tile floor as though someone had used it to mop rather than water. The rest of the place was oddly normal by comparison, and he vaguely recognized it as some sort of mess hall: there was a line of glass cases and refrigerators—he _assumed_ they were refrigerators since he couldn’t think of what else such huge steel boxes would be used for—at the far side of the room. A field of sleeping bags and luggage stood between him and the service counters, scattered among the round tables and white chairs lining the walls. It reminded him of the bomb shelters he’d seen over the last few months, right down to the dim, haunted eyes that locked on him from every direction.

Right in the middle of it all was his target, and this time, he _was_ appropriately frightened. But it had nothing to do with Steve—from the looks of it, he hadn’t even noticed that he’d been apprehended. Of course, that made sense when he was flattened against the wall to Steve’s left, one leg pressed to someone’s chest to keep them at bay while he swung his knife at another. Steve almost dove forward to pull the latter out of the way when he realized…it was his _target_ who was in trouble here.

Steve had seen terrible things during the war. Men burned half to death on the battlefield. Children emaciated from malnutrition. Families were left homeless, and the less fortunate ones had been separated, often with no hope of reunion. He’d seen the absolute worst the world had to offer, more so than he had ever dreamed, but this was on a whole other level. He’d never witnessed a human being clawing at a man this way, mouth hanging open with teeth bared and ready to bite—he’d never seen someone hungry enough to eat another person alive, but the guy his target was attempting to fend off was trying his best. Bespoke suit covered in copper-colored stains, he was pulling at his quarry’s jeans and snapping at his calf like a rabid dog. It was beyond inhuman, beyond bestial. It was absolute insanity.

Even worse was the utter lack of _anything_ in his target’s expression when he threw his weight forward, shoved the guy away, and lashed out with the only weapon he apparently had.

It swung wide and caught his other assailant in the chest instead, sinking in to the hilt. Steve waited for her to go down.

She _didn’t_.

Steve felt his jaw slacken when the woman let out a low, gurgling sound and lunged at his target again, catching the man’s arm by his sleeve. Before Steve could gather enough of his wits to intervene—on either of their behalf—the man he’d been chasing rammed his knife straight through the back of her exposed neck. Blood oozed from beneath her hair, but he threw her body away from him without a drop leaking onto his clothing, his expression shuttered. This time, she didn’t get up again.

_What the hell is going on here?!_

For a moment, Steve couldn’t move. The world narrowed to that single point: his target and the person he’d just murdered, who was hardly a sympathetic figure herself. It was perhaps the most obscene sight he’d ever witnessed, which was really saying something. They were in an office building in New York City, not the battlefields of Europe. This sort of thing had no place here—that was what he had been fighting to prevent. Maybe if the Germans had gotten their way, that would be different; except for one attack, the war hadn’t reached their soil, and it had been his intent to keep it that way. This, however, was madness. It was every awful thing about the last couple of years made worse by the setting. This wasn’t supposed to happen here. It _couldn’t_ happen here.

But it _was_ , and it wasn’t going to allow him to sit this one out either.

There was no opening for him to help his target or hold him accountable for the body at his feet, not when it appeared that his mere presence had caught the attention of the crowd. Countless eyes shifted towards him with sightless gazes, but they shuffled closer nonetheless. They weren’t speedy—not even remotely—and Steve could easily have taken them even if they were. That was yet another advantage of being a super soldier.

But they were civilians. Each and every one of them.

Looking at it like that made the situation that much more complicated.

Jerking away from their outstretched hands, Steve ducked low to the floor and swung his leg in a wide arc as soon as a few of his crazed assailants were within range. The benign attack sent their legs out from under them, but if he thought that would slow them down, he was sorely mistaken. They didn’t waste their energy struggling to their knees or feet, clawing their way across the floor instead even as they tripped up the ones coming in from behind. They were the same as the woman his target had felled—undeterred, difficulty notwithstanding.

_Could really use my shield right about now_ , he mused as he kicked one of their hands off the hem of his trousers and staggered backwards, but there wasn’t time to dwell on it. Dwelling meant hesitating, and hesitating was dangerous; he’d already learned that the hard way with his target. So, putting his lack of gear out of his mind for the time being, Steve forced himself upright and punched one woman in the face, cringing a bit as he apologized under his breath. There had been the occasional woman working for Hydra (whether by choice or not), but he’d avoided physical altercations with them whenever he could manage it. That was what you were supposed to do with dames, even ones like Peggy Carter, who didn’t need the opposition to go easy on her to win. Not like this person. No, he could practically _feel_ his mother shaking her head from heaven.

_Later_ , he repeated silently. That, apparently, was going to become something of a mantra if the rest of the day was any indication.

Shoving his shame aside, Steve swung again, this time taking out a man wearing a tattered plaid button-up and a baseball cap. He was a hefty guy, and as Steve generally watched his strength around people who weren’t enhanced like he was, the punch didn’t do much to hinder him. Rather, he caught Steve’s wrist and hungrily brought it up to his mouth, his teeth mere centimeters from breaking his skin open—

Steve snatched his hand back, the shock of it dragging the man towards him. With a quick spin, Steve used his momentum to send him flying into the wall. That, under any other circumstances, would have been the end of it.

These weren’t _other circumstances_ , though, and the entire world had been turned on its head in a matter of minutes since he’d woken up. As such, the impact didn’t even momentarily stun his opponent, and his assailant barreled around with a grunt of exertion.

Until he suddenly went rigid and collapsed in a heap against the cracked plaster.

Across the room, Steve’s target was breathing heavily, his fist clenched around nothing but air as he dodged a few adversaries and yanked his knife out of the back of the cadaver’s skull. His eyes were flat and disbelieving when he casually admonished, “They don’t get knocked out, genius. Go for its head.”

He didn’t wait while Steve opened his mouth to warn him about the woman approaching on his six—he whirled around and dug his blade into her eye without another word.

Steve watched in horrified fascination as his target ruthlessly murdered his opponent and, not breaking stride for exhaustion or guilt or any semblance of emotion, speared his knife through the temple of yet another. It was a dance, in a sense, one that he was more familiar with than those he’d seen in the dance halls he’d peered into on occasion. Death and destruction. Survival. Inhumanity at its finest.

In that moment, Steve wondered once again if he was dreaming—if this was some sort of sick joke or circle of Hell reserved for people like him. After all, he’d committed suicide; he’d taken the Valkyrie down, knowing that he would die with it. The ramifications beyond saving the world hadn’t really occurred to him at the time, if he was being honest. They always said that it would be the last thing you thought about—where you’d go when everything fell away and you slipped into oblivion—but it hadn’t for Steve. Maybe in the back of his head, in his most distant consciousness, he’d simply believed that God would forgive him for it given the alternative. Considering the chaos unfolding around him, however, he was genuinely starting to doubt it.

Fortunately, there wasn’t much opportunity to ponder the meaning of this strange and frightening existence. Unbothered by the death of their comrades, the other blood-stained inhabitants of this terrible room bore down on him with ferocious detachment when he turned to look at them. Behind him, he could hear his target grunting with the effort of struggling with his own assailants.

He would never be sure what it was, what switch flipped inside him. Perhaps it was a soldier’s instinct, the kind of sixth sense that you naturally acquired when you spent a couple of years trying to ensure that any moment _wouldn’t_ be your last; perhaps it was merely his own acceptance of the fact that he had no idea what was going on and wouldn’t if he didn’t get through this trial first. Either way, he was instantly back in enemy territory, surrounded but not out. Not yet. He had assistance—an ally?—at his six, holding down the fort so he could focus on what was right in front of him. The battlefield was beset not by artillery, but by furniture, which could essentially be used to the same effect. The enemy was approaching, and he knew what he had to do.

Steve dove to the side and grabbed a table by the leg, swinging it around without holding back and ignoring the crunch of bones that rang through his ears as it made contact with multiple targets. He didn’t flinch at the sight of blood and brain matter that spattered the other side of his makeshift weapon. He didn’t let himself stop for even a moment as he whirled around and made sure three of the others met a similar fate. Mentally checking his trajectory, he threw the table at a woman in tight-fitting black clothes reminiscent of his USO tour uniform and didn’t check to see if she went down before he reared back to kick a man in a crumpled suit in the face. It was harder to look past the blood coating his shoes when there wasn’t a shield or a table or _anything_ between him and the enemy—but he was a soldier. He was Captain America. If he couldn’t handle a little gore, regardless of how his head felt like it was spinning in confusion, then he didn’t deserve the title. And if there was one thing he’d sworn to both himself and Dr. Erskine on more occasions than he could count, it was that he _would_ prove himself worthy of that mantle.

So, Captain America punched. He kicked. He broke metal legs off chairs and set his sights on different targets than the one he’d begun with.

And then it was over. The seconds or minutes or infinite decades passed in a blur of red and black until Steve was no longer surrounded. Instead, he suddenly found himself standing at the center of a sea of blood and corpses, his body not having the decency to be at least a bit out of breath as the eyes of the dead stared blankly up at him in eternal disdain. In sharp contrast to similar scenes on battlefields across the European continent, there was no twitching of limbs, no stench beyond the metallic tang of blood on the air. They were just…still. If anything, it looked more like what he and every other civilian had pictured before experience had taught many of them otherwise.

Its other lesson: never let your guard down unless you were positive that the danger had passed, sometimes not then either. His muscles remembered that better than his mind, which was struggling to keep up with how it had come to this in the first place; the adrenaline was pumping through his veins alongside the serum, making the world sharper even though the only thing he could hear was the sound of his own enhanced heartbeat thumping steadily in his chest.

Then a sharp cry of pain broke through the haze and sent him right back down to earth.

Whipping around, Steve’s eyes narrowed as he spotted two stragglers advancing on his only hope for answers. Despite his admittedly impressive display of fortitude, it was obvious that he wasn’t enhanced: the way he favored his left arm and the exhausted slump of his shoulders gave him away. His flagging energy had him leaving openings that Steve hadn’t noticed earlier, when a voice in the back of his head had whispered, _Military. Soldier_.

Now he was expending too much for too little gain, and it was starting to show as he struck one assailant across the face and left his back wide open to the other as it hungrily took advantage.

It was a close thing. His original target ducked without question when Steve called to him, then his own fists were buried in two ratty tufts of hair as they beat two skulls together.

Then it was _really_ over.

Neither of them said a word for a long minute, their eyes locked in equal parts suspicion and camaraderie as his counterpart staggered upright.

_Definitely not enhanced_ , Steve mused as he watched the other man panting in an obvious attempt to regain the composure he’d lost since their initial encounter. That, however, wasn’t all that stared back at him.

It took a moment for the discomfort to set in once he realized that he was being scrutinized in a more careful, more systematic manner than even Colonel Phillips had ever seen fit to employ. For a second, he almost felt like that 90-pound asthmatic wondering how the hell he made it into a world so utterly opposed to his very existence.

Apparently, that wasn’t his companion’s problem.

“How the hell did you do that?” he eventually demanded, still audibly breathless and inconspicuously clutching a stitch in his side. “Turn ‘em all into ground chuck like that?”

Blinking, Steve spared a quick glance for the carnage he’d left in his wake. He hadn’t paid much attention to it in the heat of the moment, only cognizant of the fact that there _were_ bodies and that _he_ was the one who’d taken their lives. It was how soldiers operated if they were going to live another day.

Now, he winced at the extent of the damage. As with the armored Hydra agents he’d encountered throughout the war, Steve hadn’t held back once he’d realized how difficult it was to incapacitate his assailants. The splintered table he’d wielded had severed more than one head; they lay crushed and unrecognizable on the floor, oozing fluids that were gradually seeping into the cracks between the formerly neutral tiles. The attackers he’d turned into projectiles were huddled here and there along the walls, their limbs bent at odd angles in a grotesque mockery of the lunch queues this place had probably seen countless times in the past. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t one clean spot left untouched by either their smeared footprints or the rest of what their struggle had left behind. It wasn’t a cafeteria anymore; it was a graveyard.

The entire scenario really _was_ just like the war. Even though the tiniest seeds of guilt were buried deep in his chest, Steve felt no remorse. Civilians or not, his life had been in danger—the life of his companion, if he could call him that, had been in danger. When backed into that kind of corner, if there was one lesson he’d learned in the army, it was that you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t think twice about felling the enemy that sought to take you and your brothers in arms down. How many times had he seen someone pause only to get a bullet to the head? How many times had _he_ considered giving someone a chance to make a different decision only to regret it? Add into it the fact that he’d been dealing with Hydra and all of Schmidt’s brainwashed puppets and there was no waiting. Waiting got innocent people killed or worse.

Could he claim with any certainty that his companion was innocent, though? Not ten minutes ago, he’d been convinced that the man was one of his captors, tasked with making sure that Captain America didn’t find his way home. Regardless, Steve had treated him like a friend and watched his back, suspicions that he could be Hydra notwithstanding.

Well, _former_ suspicions. Somehow, it was looking less and less likely by the minute. When he turned away from the destruction he’d wrought, it was to find an uneasy, cautious expression on his companion’s face that didn’t jive with an enemy operative fearing that the same would happen to him. It was as if he had witnessed something unrecognizable. As if he had no idea what Captain America was capable of.

As if he truly didn’t know who Steve was.

Was it possible that they were just two people caught in the wrong place at the wrong time? Whatever place and time it was?

_At this point, I don’t think anything could surprise me anymore._

Steeling himself for yet another rebuff, Steve bargained, “I’ll answer your questions as soon as you answer mine.”

His companion hesitated a moment before carefully inquiring, “Which are…?”

Their heights weren’t much different, which meant Steve could look him square in the eye when he sternly answered, “I want to know where I am and how I got here.”

This time, he didn’t receive an automatic denial. He considered that a step in the right direction. His companion’s gaze turned contemplative instead as he surveyed Steve through shrewdly narrowed eyes. It was a little like staring down Peggy when she was determined to peer inside his soul and determine what kind of man was hiding beneath the skinny, unimpressive exterior he’d presented. Unlike then, it didn’t appear that his companion found what he was looking for now.

“You seriously have no idea, do you?” he asked quietly, thoughtful rather than venomous.

“About what?” asked Steve just as somberly. The man slowly shook his head.

“Anything.”

There was a small, petty part of Steve that bristled at that even though he knew that the insinuation wasn’t designed to insult him. It felt like only yesterday that he’d been called every name under the sun because of his appearance, _stupid_ chief among them despite the questionable connection between size and intelligence. This was different: his companion lacked the condescension that Steve had grown accustomed to either swallowing from his elders or attempting to beat out of his peers. (That had never gone very well for him.) Instead, he seemed…sympathetic? Understanding? Some combination of the two? Whatever it was, Steve couldn’t remember an instant since they’d met when the man had emoted anything so…well, _human_. It was that realization more than anything else that had Steve’s mouth opening and the truth pouring out.

“Last I knew, I was in a plane and the world was at war. Now I wake up, and it doesn’t look that way anymore. At least, not the way I’m used to.”

His companion blinked a few times in silence, a slight frown creasing his forehead. It looked for a moment like he was about to speak, but he appeared to think better of it and tore his eyes away from Steve’s to glare around the room with a grimace.

“Maybe we should take this conversation someplace else,” he mumbled evasively, otherwise unaffected by the view. “’S not gonna be long before it starts stinking like crazy in here. And you need a change of clothes.”

Steve began to protest, to insist that he wanted his answers first, but one look at his shirt told him it would probably be prudent to agree in this instance. He wasn’t _covered_ in blood per se, but his white shirt was stained pink in places and there was a glob of something he didn’t want to think too deeply about on the side of his pants. When he reached down to brush it off, however, his companion snatched his wrist well before he could make contact. His grip wasn’t strong enough to stop Steve—no one’s was—yet it gave him pause nonetheless, especially when he spotted the sheer disbelief and veiled terror on the guy’s face.

“You don’t just _touch_ that stuff!” he exclaimed, shaking his head when Steve stared at him uncomprehendingly. “That’s how it spreads.”

“How _what_ spreads?” inquired Steve with a frown.

Rolling his eyes, his companion roughly pulled him towards the exit. “The parasite.”

“Parasite?”

Even with his enhanced hearing, Steve couldn’t tell what it was that his companion muttered under his breath, but he had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t very complimentary.

As the other man led the way through the doors, which he then closed firmly behind them, he briskly explained, “Those people back there? The ones you took down like a goddamn tank? They’ve got this parasite in their heads. It’s in their blood, their brain—makes them do what you saw. That’s why you’ve gotta go for the head. You disable the control tower, you disable the plane, right?”

“You make them sound like weapons,” observed Steve disapprovingly, following his companion to the elevators and watching as he hit the call button before turning to face him again. When he did, his expression was even more exhausted than it had been in the cafeteria.

“That’s basically all that’s left once they get to that point,” he sighed with a shrug. “They’re not _people_. They’re shells.”

It was Steve’s turn to shake his head this time. He’d been through the war, and he’d seen plenty of humans turned into shells of their former selves—he’d never seen anything like _that_ , though. “Didn’t look that way to me.”

A flash of something like irritation momentarily lit up his companion’s eyes when he retorted, “Believe what you want, pal, but if you wanna treat them like _people_ , you’re gonna die. They don’t stop just because you try to reason with them. Whatever those parasites do, it makes them crazy hungry. That means they will come at you and come at you and _come at you_ until there’s nothing left to come for. And if they don’t eat all of you, whatever’s left just becomes one of them. But sure, they’re _people_ ,” he snorted derisively, turning his back on Steve when the elevator dinged to announce its arrival.

Stepping into the uncomfortably heavy silence of the lift and waiting for the other man to hit the button for the twentieth floor was one of the hardest things Steve had done—including putting a plane in the ocean—and he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of contrition in the wake of his companion’s outburst. If what he said was true and mankind _had_ somehow been ravaged by a bug that no one in his memory had ever even _thought_ to dream up, it probably wasn’t the best move to insult the guy for his choice in survival methods. Not if he wanted his own intel.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized quietly as the elevator moved upwards more smoothly than any lift he’d ever been in before. “I guess it’s just a little hard to swallow is all.”

His companion huffed but didn’t answer at first, keeping his eyes firmly locked on the door rather than meeting Steve’s steady gaze. It wasn’t until he eventually noticed that Steve wasn’t going to let the situation drop so easily that he shrugged a shoulder.

“Guess it would be,” he grunted in what Steve assumed was the best approximation of forgiveness he was capable of. Rather than letting the conversation die there, however, he surprisingly—and tonelessly—inquired, “You got a name?”

“Steve,” he replied after a brief moment of deliberation. Introductions didn’t sit quite right with him when he still had no idea who he was truly talking to, but if they were the only two people in the building, it would be impossible to carry a conversation without at least extending the benefit of the doubt. “You?”

He felt more than saw his companion’s skeptical glance but didn’t get a chance to comment on it as he reluctantly offered, “Bucky.”

Nodding, Steve prompted, “Short for something?”

“Yup.”

If he thought he would get more than that, he was dead wrong. Bucky didn’t waste a second in getting off the elevator when the doors slid open and making a beeline for the room where they’d met, clearly expecting Steve to follow him.

_That went well_ , he snorted inwardly. The lack of forthcoming information was beginning to grate on Steve’s nerves, but he tamped down his irritation as best he could for now. Eventually, Bucky would have to address his questions. He was in no position to deny Steve some answers, after all.

As they strode down the corridor, though, Steve was increasingly certain that it would be a bit longer before they got to that part of the discussion. Rather than returning to the strange room-within-a-room where Steve had woken up, Bucky stopped outside the doors with a pensive frown on his face. Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t seem keen on sharing, and they simply stood there in silence while his sharp eyes scanned the walls for something Steve couldn’t identify. Right when he was about ready to ask what they were waiting for, Bucky whirled around and retreated to the next door on the right as if he wasn’t even there—at least until he reached out and discovered that it was locked. Then his gaze found Steve, astute and calculating in spite of its reluctance.

“Any chance you can break this down?” Bucky asked, jerking his head towards the door.

Quirking an eyebrow, Steve slowly approached. “Why?”

It appeared to take a great deal of effort, but Bucky obviously suppressed an eye roll as he brusquely explained, “Nobody goes to the trouble of putting someone in a setup like that without having eyes on the room, and they definitely wouldn’t put you on another floor if they were worried about getting to you quick. So, I’m betting we’ve got surveillance equipment in here.”

“…How does _that_ have anything to do with looking for clean clothes?” demanded Steve, utterly perplexed yet apprehensively curious all the same. Bucky scrutinized him with a guarded expression for a minute before he shrugged and stepped pointedly out of the way.

“If they were watching, they’ve probably got extra stuff you might need. Clothes, food, first aid…”

It was a lie, an evasion. That much was clear as day, and the suspicious sensation that had gripped Steve’s lungs and squeezed earlier descended upon him once more. Bucky wanted something in that room, although for what purpose, Steve couldn’t glean from his unruffled expression or forcibly relaxed posture. That in itself didn’t do a whole lot to ease his own misgivings. As much as he felt like the same little guy from Brooklyn most days, he’d grown accustomed to people folding under his glares now that he had the muscle to back them up.

Not Bucky, though. He didn’t respond to Steve’s unspoken question or acknowledge that he had some poorly masked ulterior motive in breaking into what was probably a storage closet or an empty office.

_Definitely military, all right._

Deciding to play along for now, Steve nodded shortly and moved forward. The door was solid wood under his hand when he laid it flat against the grain, not that that would stop him. A quick jab was more than enough to punch it right off its hinges, and Steve winced at the crash of the door against the opposite wall, a nearly deafening sound in the otherwise silent corridor.

The display must have been sufficient to shake Bucky from his feigned disinterest, because when Steve glanced over his shoulder, there was a quirk to his lips that exuded equal parts fascinated approval and wary discomfort. If Steve didn’t know any better, he would have thought that his companion was surprised that he’d been able to fulfill his request, which…made no sense. Why would he ask if he thought it wasn’t possible? Was it some kind of test? And if it was, what was he trying to find out?

All those questions and about two dozen others were on the tip of his tongue, ready to slip out until Bucky stepped past him into…

_What the hell is this place?_

In half a second, that inquiry took precedence over all the rest, and Steve struggled to make sense of what his eyes were showing him even as his mind argued that it couldn’t possibly be real.

It honestly should have come as no surprise to Steve that this room was just as bafflingly _other_ as the rest of the building—the rest of the _city_ , if the glimpse he’d gotten had been anything to go by—yet he stood on the threshold with his mouth hanging open regardless. The chamber was by no means as large as the other two he’d seen. It was barely more spacious than his bedroom back in Brooklyn, easily spanned in a few short steps but packed to the brim with things he’d never seen before. One entire wall was covered in what looked like huge, flat television screens, all showing what he assumed were different parts of the building in pristine quality Steve could scarcely believe existed without being seen directly by the human eye. His fascination prompted his feet to bring him closer, but there wasn’t a fuzzy spot in sight. It was clearer than any photograph—it was clearer than _anything_ he’d seen before the serum, as a matter of fact.

With great difficulty, Steve forced his gaze from the impossible miracle of technology hanging on the wall to examine the rest of the room, which was slightly less impressive by comparison. There were two chairs set up at a desk right in front of the screens, abandoned in the dim light around them. The walls and ceiling were painted black, creating an eerily underwater atmosphere that sent a shiver up Steve’s spine. It was beyond his wildest imaginings—something out of a book, one that he couldn’t possibly have read because he’d never heard of anything like it before in his life. Not even the Hydra bases they’d infiltrated had been able to imitate this level of advancement.

Bucky, unsurprisingly enough, was nowhere near as awed as Steve. With the exception of a television Steve belatedly realized was trained on the room he’d been sequestered in, he settled for a mere sweeping glance before moving straight for a metal chest in the corner, glaring down at it with suspicion and what looked oddly like hesitation. It was a fleeting thing, then his expression turned hard and he dropped to his knees as though this was what he’d been looking for all along.

“What are you doing?” asked Steve, approaching from behind and watching with morbid fascination as he tried to pry the lid open with the bloody blade of his knife. He hardly seemed to register Steve’s presence for a moment and, when he answered, didn’t bother pausing in his endeavor.

“You wanted answers, right?”

Frowning, Steve tentatively answered in the affirmative.

“This is how you get them.”

“Or you could just tell me what I want to know,” observed Steve impatiently. He prided himself on giving people the benefit of the doubt, especially after they proved themselves to be at least grudging allies if not friendlies, but Bucky was treading on thin ice. Now that the adrenaline from their encounter with the people (or parasites—whatever they were) downstairs was draining fast, his brain was spinning into overdrive as he tried to get back to the task at hand: figuring out what was going on here and how to get word to Peggy that he was alive.

“Only problem with _that_ is that I need to know a lot more before I can even begin telling you what you want to know,” grunted Bucky, throwing all his weight behind his knife and cursing when it began to bend in the unyielding vise-grip of the sealed box. Glaring at the chest as if it had personally affronted him, Bucky slid his weapon into a holster strapped to his ankle and straightened up. “Look for keys.”

“What?”

“ _Keys_ ,” he reiterated harshly where he was already sifting through a leaning stack of files on the desk beside them. “There’s a lock on the front, which means someone had to have keys. They probably worked in here.”

“And you don’t think they took the keys with them?” Steve asked dubiously.

“This place has massive security. They wouldn’t take keys to stuff like this outta the building, so they should still be here somewhere.”

That piqued Steve’s suspicions. “How would you know that?”

Scoffing, Bucky replied as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, “Any dumbass knows that.”

Steve didn’t have an answer this time, not when it would do nothing more than irritate his one source of answers further or make himself out to be an idiot. So, he wisely kept his mouth shut and searched instead, pushing aside piles of folders bursting at the seams and shifting around the flattest typewriter he’d ever seen. (It took a great deal of restraint not to ask Bucky where the paper was supposed to go in.)

Finding a set of small metal keys underneath the administrative detritus gave Steve a sense of both satisfaction at having beaten Bucky to the chase and frustration at having essentially proven him _right_. He shoved the doubt and pettiness to the back of his mind, though, and held up the keys for Bucky’s inspection. The latter simply nodded in gratitude, snatching them out of his hand and immediately darting back to the box. It took a few tries for him to find the right key, then they both heard the telltale _click_ of the lid conceding defeat.

Thankfully, it was more of a victory than Steve had been counting on. When Bucky opened the chest, Steve couldn’t help thinking with a sigh of relief, _Well…it_ is _clothes._

That was one question answered: whoever operated the building knew without a doubt that Steve was Captain America and had stored his uniform and shield right here where he wouldn’t be able to get at them. The red, white, and blue paint shone in the bluish light reflecting off the walls, welcoming Steve home with the same eerie wrongness that New York had. From what he could see, both of his sole belongings were still intact and just as he’d last seen them, which eased the anxiety he’d felt to wake up without those essential pieces of who he was—who he had _become_.

While he was filled with satisfaction and comfort at _finally_ having found something familiar in this strange foreign territory, however, Bucky looked like someone had sucker punched him in the gut. His mouth was slightly ajar, and his eyes were locked on Steve’s shield as if he were looking down the barrel of a gun.

“Bucky?” he gently prompted when he didn’t emerge from whatever stupor he’d fallen into. “What’s wrong?”

For a second, he thought he wouldn’t get a response. Then, so slowly that it seemed to take an eternity, Bucky’s head turned in his direction and grey eyes stared right into his very soul as he struggled to find words. Eventually, all he could settle on was, “You’re really him.”


	4. Brave New World

Bucky had been subjected to and an active participant in more uncomfortable conversations than he could count over the years. He’d been informed that his left arm would be damn near useless for the rest of his life; that the government-provided, top of the line healthcare they’d been promised when they entered the military wouldn’t cover reconstructive surgery for the tissue and nerves that had been damaged overseas; and that his inability to pay a security deposit for an apartment lease because all his meager earnings were tied up in maintaining what was left of his dead limb would keep him from having a roof over his head. Hell, he’d had to explain to shelters that he _didn’t_ have fleas before.

Filling _Captain America_ in on what had happened over more than half a century? Yeah, that took the cake.

For his part, Steve handled it all with a great deal of dignity—a lot more than Bucky would have had in the same situation. Of course, that would never happen: unlike Steve Rogers, he was just an average guy who _would_ have died if he’d had the guts to drive a plane into the ground. Never in his life would he have to worry about going to sleep only to wake up in a different time, the entire world having changed while he was out. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad these days; technology advanced on an hourly basis, but it was nowhere near as dramatic a shift as the ones they’d undergone since World War II. A flying car, a cell phone with facial recognition instead of lock codes, or even the advent of virtual reality would be merely a drop in the bucket. If what little he could remember from his high school history classes was anything to go by, then Steve was much further out of his depth than that.

Instead of immediately losing his cool, however, he showed the sort of restraint that Bucky recognized and even identified with to an extent. He was more than slightly familiar with the stiffness in the captain’s spine and the cautious detachment with which he watched Bucky throughout what passed for an explanation of what was going on in the world. (There was far too much to go into detail, so he stuck with the abridged version. Even that took a couple of hours at least.) The military had forged that ironclad defensive posture in both of them, although Bucky thought he had gotten off somewhat easier. His arm was aching from the strain of their encounter with the Hosts downstairs, but he knew where he was and what the world was like outside. While that wasn’t the most comforting thought, it was better than whatever had to be going through Steve’s head.

“So this _is_ New York,” he clarified once Bucky had talked himself into silence. It was more than he’d spoken in the last three years, and his throat was ready to quit on him by the end of his lecture.

“Yeah.”

“And the war’s over.”

“Yup.”

“We won?”

“Thanks to you.”

“And it’s been…”

“Seventy years.”

Of everything they’d covered since they found Steve’s suit and shield in the chest Bucky was using as a chair, that was what appeared to stun him the most, no matter how adept he was at hiding it. Surviving a plane crash in the middle of the Arctic didn’t faze him; being discovered by what was probably some creepy, shady, ultra-secretive underground organization garnered a mere shrug. Either the war had been wilder than Bucky had always heard (which was really saying something) or Steve was simply _that_ tough, because every detail that would have left a lesser man reeling rolled right off those broad, enhanced shoulders like they were nothing. The kicker, the one that actually broke through the steady veneer Steve seemed determined to uphold, was exactly how much time had passed. Waking up in the 50s after a couple of years as a glorified popsicle would have been one thing; sleeping for the better part of a century made Rumpelstiltskin look like a wuss.

The same must have occurred to Steve, though he had a pretty funny way of showing it. Rather than verbally railing against the guys responsible like Bucky would have done—like he _had_ done after he’d been sent home with all the gratitude and none of the money the government owed him—or denying what was right in front of his face, he simply…left. Sort of. Strolling aimlessly out of the surveillance room toward the windows that overlooked the lifeless void outside, he put his back to Bucky for the first time that he could remember in their short acquaintance. It might have been a compliment under different circumstances, but given the bombshell that had just been dropped on the guy, he figured it was more out of necessity than anything else. After all, if Bucky had come to the realization that everything he knew was gone? That the whole world was a different place and that he maybe— _probably_ —had no place in it? He couldn’t imagine what kind of hell that would be.

Or perhaps he could. Wasn’t that the fate of every unlucky bastard who ended up living in the shadows where people tried not to look? The ones who were blamed for rising taxes when they hardly saw a dime that they didn’t pilfer from the sewers where no one actually missed them? They were arguably just as out of place as a man out of time.

_Yeah, as if_ , snorted Bucky to himself. _Like Captain America would ever get sidelined._

That much, he could be certain of. Whoever owned this building had gone to a lot of trouble to not only keep Steve in the dark about the outside world, but to rehabilitate him in a controlled environment where, had the planet not gone to crap, they doubtless had the resources and manpower to ensure that he was contained. Nobody went to those lengths for someone they would willingly let roam into the sunset. No, they’d had plans for Captain America, plans that had apparently been dashed by the shifting shadows in the streets twenty floors below them.

The real question here wasn’t whether Steve Rogers would have found a place to belong had their absentee hosts’ intents run their course, though. A setup like this meant they knew who was in their custody, in which case it made no sense that Steve had been left here on his own. Sure, there were no Hosts on this floor; they hadn’t ventured out of the cafeteria as far as he’d been able to tell. Even so, there were no guarantees anymore. As unlikely as it was that anything would have gotten to Steve before he woke up, Bucky couldn’t imagine that somebody out there wasn’t kicking themselves for ditching him as if he were an extra carry-on that they didn’t want to pay the fees for.

If they were still lucid. Or living. That was always a reasonable assumption to make.

That, in any case, was an answer they’d probably never get, not that it seemed to be high on Steve’s list of priorities at the moment. Bucky could understand that, although he supposed that eventually it would rear its ugly head again. After all, the last thing the guy needed was to worry about looking over his shoulder for Hosts _and_ whoever had defrosted him.

There wasn’t nearly enough of either going on, however. The minutes slipped by, and Steve remained rooted to his spot at the window as if it would tell him what the hell he was meant to do now that he’d woken up at what very well might be the end of the world. Any other day, Bucky would have given him more time. Actually, strike that—he would have wandered off and done his own thing while simultaneously judging Steve to be an idiot for remaining idle for so long. Yeah, that was a lot more his style. He wouldn’t be wrong, all things considered; they weren’t exactly in a position to be dawdling. They were safe for the moment, but if there was one thing Bucky knew without a shadow of a doubt, it was that it only took a fraction of a second for a situation to flip from bad to worse. They’d already been here longer than he ordinarily would have stayed. It was too dark outside to hope for a successful exit, yet that didn’t mean there wasn’t plenty to accomplish in here. There was scavenging for supplies, attempting to figure out what kind of place this was, putting together a plan for evacuation in the morning when things could look better, the same, or infinitely worse… Bucky hadn’t had to wait for someone else in years, which was sort of the advantage to being on his own.

And he was _still_ on his own. Company was fleeting; camaraderie, even in the heat of battle, led to parting ways eventually. They’d run into each other, but once they left the building, there was no telling what roads they would decide to take.

_No use getting attached._

That wry thought had Bucky smirking slightly as he stood, stretched, and strode over to where Steve was glued to the window. Attachment wasn’t something he worried about, at least not on his part. What did concern him was the idea that adding variables to the situation never boded well. He’d seen it a million times and wasn’t ready to end up like those poor bastards.  

Fortunately for him, he hadn’t run into a helpless idiot. Well, the jury was out on the _idiot_ part; he’d heard some stories about pre-serum Steve Rogers that provided evidence to the contrary. Regardless, he wasn’t helpless, and that was the best Bucky could hope for these days.

He had to hand it to the guy: he shouldered the burden of truth well enough that he figured Hosts wouldn’t make a dent in his resolve. Maybe it was the heroic clench of his jaw or the stoicism of an age long past, but Steve didn’t _look_ upset the way Bucky would have expected when he approached the window and glanced furtively at him. His eyes stared unseeingly out at the city, but otherwise, Bucky might have simply told him that the news was predicting rain today for all it seemed to bother him. If it weren’t for the fact that Bucky recognized that gaze—that thousand-yard stare that only the warriors or the traumatized ever really perfected—he would have believed Steve was doing just fine. He would have believed that there was no chance Steve could possibly be thinking about every single thing he’d lost by sabotaging that plane and how he would need to make his peace with it a second time now. Imagining it was its own torture, and Bucky was distantly relieved that he’d lost everything there was to value in life long before he was of an age to remember it.

“You gonna be okay?”

There was a beat of silence, then Steve took a deep breath and sighed, “Yeah, it’s just… I had a date.”

Latching on to the partial change in topic, Bucky turned to lean against the glass with his back to the depressing sight of devastation outside. Nobody had expected comfort from him in longer than he could recall, and he wasn’t even sure that he’d be capable of providing it now that he was so out of practice. This, however, was a conversation he could have, foreign as it nevertheless felt.

“Peggy Carter, huh?” he asked, equal parts sympathetic and taunting. Although it didn’t exactly bring a smile to the guy’s face, it _did_ snap Steve out of his funk. Blue eyes that were way older than they appeared shot to Bucky’s face, narrowing in equal parts scrutiny and skepticism.

“How do _you_ know about her?”

Scoffing, Bucky chuckled, “Seriously? She’s a _legend_. Boot camp is basically just a lesson in how to live up to you two these days. Didn’t talk much about your clandestine love affair, though,” he added with mock disappointment, the implications of his assertion striking him in the face a second too late.

With anyone else, it probably would have been ignored, not that he was much for discussion with random strangers. The joke would prevail, and they would descend into a bout of halfhearted teasing that would have ended rapidly once Bucky ran out of social steam. It had happened more than once in the shelters he’d frequented; the other guys loved to talk, and if you merely stared at them, they tended to take it the wrong way. A sarcastic barb here and there was usually adequate to placate them while simultaneously diverting attention from himself. His story, after all, was neither the most interesting nor the most party-friendly.

Steve, however, wasn’t anybody else. Not a crusty, unemployed vagrant or an indifferent passerby on the street. He was a soldier—he was _Captain America_ —and as such, he didn’t miss a damn thing. His choked attempt at a retort died on his lips and the humor vanished from his expression, replaced with a sharp curiosity that Bucky had hoped not to see from him again. At least, not with regards to _him_.

“So, you _are_ military,” Steve interjected soberly, his eyes searching Bucky’s as if he expected the answer to be tattooed to his forehead or something.

Just like that, the easy soldier’s camaraderie that had fallen between them shattered like the beer bottles he’d used to distract the Hosts earlier that day. (Was it still the same day? He wasn’t sure, but that felt like weeks ago rather than hours.) Bucky immediately shored up the defenses he had perfected over the last three years, pushed off of the window, and made a beeline for his bag where he’d left it in the surveillance room.

“Was,” he briskly tossed over his shoulder in the hopes that Steve would take the hint and let it go. His career and its abrupt end weren’t among the subjects he was willing to discuss. When he’d gotten back stateside, he had locked them away where they wouldn’t see the light of day, and they had remained that way ever since. Dragging them out into the open wasn’t an option, so they were treading dangerously close to a conversation he didn’t want to have. It wasn’t a conversation he’d _ever_ had, not when he got out of the army or when he had his psyche evals after everything that happened in those final days or when the therapists who liked to visit the homeless shelters from time to time tried to ask him.

And he’d be damned if he was going to have it with Captain goddamn America. The guy had seen a million times worse than anything Bucky could cop to, regardless of the fact that his hands were likely a thousand times cleaner. He wouldn’t want to listen to Bucky whine about his arm or the nightmares that poked at the back of his brain—none of it would mean anything in light of the epic shitstorm Steve had lived (and died) during.

Apparently, Steve wasn’t thinking ahead to that obvious conclusion. Whether that was because he really was the idiot Bucky had been betting he wasn’t or he was imagining an experience similar to his own, Bucky couldn’t be sure. Regardless, his silence wasn’t enough, and he’d barely retrieved his belongings when Steve’s voice rang out behind him.

“What unit?”

“It’s not important,” muttered Bucky without meeting his gaze. Instead, he dumped his bag on the desk and busied himself with opening a smaller compartment none too gently, digging through the supplies and detritus until he found one of his last few granola bars. He wasn’t necessarily hungry and vaguely registered that he was going to regret wasting the food when he eventually ended up needing it later, but that didn’t stop him from tearing open the foil and giving his mouth something else to do besides vomit more mistakes.

Undeterred as only a commanding officer could be, Steve crowded closer until Bucky couldn’t quite keep his face out of the corner of his vision.

“It is.”

_Like hell it is._

It was probably a good thing that he didn’t say that aloud, because Steve already looked about ready to shake a response loose. A noncommittal grunt definitely didn’t appease him.

“It matters because you know exactly who I am, but I’ve got no clue about _you_ ,” he insisted in what Bucky figured was his best _I’m The Captain Here_ voice. It reminded him too much of basic training for comfort.

“’Oo du’nee ta know ‘bou’ me.” Bucky’s retort was nearly incomprehensible through a mouthful of stale granola. To his credit, Steve deciphered enough of it to quirk an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Then how do I know I can trust you?”

_That…is a good question._

Bucky swallowed with a grimace as the hard crumbs scratched the inside of his throat and glared at the nearest screen. It was displaying live feed of another floor somewhere below them from the looks of things, where the Hosts wandered aimlessly like they weren’t sure which office their meeting was in. Even with the less than stellar images in the darkened corridors, Bucky could see their glazed, lifeless eyes—their slack faces—the dark stains on their clothes from either blood or urine or something else he didn’t want to identify. He watched them and thought of the ones he’d been running from when he darted in here for shelter. He thought of the desolation, the foreboding as he’d entered the room where Steve had been kept for a reason they hadn’t worked out yet.

He thought of the emptiness. The loneliness. The way that it wasn’t _only_ from the last few weeks, but the last _three years_.

He thought of Captain America, the hero he’d learned about.

He thought of Steve Rogers, the guy he _hadn’t_.

“I was army,” he murmured before his brain realized that his mouth had formed the words. Sighing heavily, he added, “Six years.”

A pause, then, “Was?”

Bucky shrugged a shoulder uncomfortably—his good shoulder—and stared hard at the ground as he pondered how much he wanted to tell Steve about…well, everything. Deciding that the bare minimum would do, he settled on, “Got hit. Couldn’t shake it.”

Steve subtly stiffened beside him, and Bucky felt the weight of his gaze drop to the defunct left arm dangling uselessly at his side.

_Guess he noticed that_.

As if it was difficult.

Biting back the urge to tell him where to shove his gaping, Bucky flopped exhaustedly into one of the padded seats at the desk and gestured for Steve to do the same. If they were going to do this—if he was going to talk about what he _swore_ he never would in order to placate this person he would have to tolerate for at least a few more hours—they may as well be comfortable.

“They have IEDs when you were over there?” he asked, hazarding a glance at Steve in time to catch his confused frown.

“What’s an IED?”

Snorting, Bucky grumbled, “I’ll take that as a no. Stands for _improvised explosive device_. People make bombs out of anything they can find so you don’t see it coming until it’s too late.”

“Sounds like fighting dirty,” Steve remarked in distaste that made the corners of Bucky’s mouth twitch a bit.

“Yeah, basically. Mine was a pile of trash. Didn’t notice anything wrong with it, and we’d checked the area a million times. Then we were on patrol one day. No mechanisms on site, so someone must’ve detonated it remotely. That’s what they said when I woke up at Walter Reed thinking my arm was gone, anyway.” When he peered up to see Steve staring at him in obvious alarm, he hastened to clarify, “Didn’t, though. Got burned pretty bad and there’s a lot of nerve damage, but it’s still there. Obviously.”

To emphasize his point, he wiggled his arm at his side and just barely managed to subdue the wince of pain that even that much exertion prompted. Yeah, he’d definitely overdone it today.

If Steve wanted more information, then he was out of luck. Bucky wasn’t about to go deeper into what coming to terms with his newfound disability had entailed. He didn’t mention that he barely had any sensation from his shoulder to his wrist during the winter months, when the cold bit his skin through even the thickest coat he could manage to rustle up from the odd thrift store. He didn’t point out that the doctors said there was nothing they could do for it unless the government ponied up a lot more cash than they ever would for one sub-heroic soldier. He didn’t bemoan the fact that that was what kept him from finding work after he was honorably discharged from the army or that employers weren’t looking for someone they figured was as good as a cripple if there were healthier, less _damaged_ people they could hire instead. He had never complained about any of that aloud, and he wasn’t going to start now.

Thankfully—and somewhat surprisingly—Steve didn’t ask. He didn’t try to wheedle Bucky into recounting the aftermath of his realization or the struggle of relearning how to do simple things when his arm tired so easily and his fingers were clumsy at best from their lack of tactile awareness. His next line of questioning admittedly wasn’t much better, but it was the lesser of two evils by far.

“How did you end up here?” he inquired with the wary cadences of someone who thought they already knew the answer to their own question and didn’t like it. “Isn’t your family worried about you?”

He’d learned earlier that shaking his head wasn’t good enough for Steve Rogers, so Bucky reluctantly replied, “My folks died when I was a kid. Grew up with a foster family. We weren’t exactly what you’d call close.”

That was putting it mildly. His guardians had _tolerated_ his presence more than welcomed it; there hadn’t really been a honeymoon period between his placement with them after his parents’ accident and his figuring out that he was merely a paycheck to those people. It hadn’t really mattered much to him in recent years, but growing up with a family that didn’t give two shits about him when all the other kids he knew had parents who obviously loved them… He’d be a liar to say it hadn’t bothered him once. On occasion, he wondered what he would have said back then if he’d known that his situation wouldn’t improve, that he still wouldn’t have anyone on his side as an adult. Bucky wanted to believe that he’d be incredulous, and yet there was no denying that he had acclimated to the loneliness pretty quickly. Odds were, he would have shrugged his shoulders and refrained from saying a word.

Not like Steve.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, solemn and unbearably sincere.

Bucky almost couldn’t bring himself to look up, expecting a deep well of pity to be staring back at him, but when he did, there wasn’t an ounce of it to be found. Instead, there was only compassion. Unlike the other people who had passed in and out of his life, Steve didn’t try to offer worthless platitudes about how he’d become something despite his meager origins or how the suffering of his youth only made him stronger—the crap people always said when they weren’t sure what else would be appropriate during such an awkward conversation. Steve didn’t pile any of that garbage on him at all. His simple apology wasn’t nearly enough and never would be, yet somehow it sufficed without making Bucky feel like he was smothered by someone else’s sympathy. Maybe it was because it came from someone who had literally lost everything in his life as well and was sitting here today as a survivor, someone who’d gone through hellacious trials and managed to come out on the other side of it against all odds. While Bucky couldn’t claim half the victories that Captain America could, he thought he knew at least a little something about that.

So…did that make them brothers in arms?

_Hell no_ , he chuckled internally, nearly rolling his eyes at his own idiocy. That earnest _Steve Rogers_ façade notwithstanding, this was _Captain America_ he was talking about—it wasn’t some other poor orphaned yutz, but a super soldier who didn’t have to take crap from anyone. Yeah, he’d lost everything too, but they weren’t the same. Steve was still in one piece and could be of use to the world if it wasn’t currently in a shambles. Bucky’s pieces were scattered across the desert somewhere, of absolutely no use to himself or anybody else.

“Thanks,” he muttered uncomfortably, averting his gaze and shifting subjects with a vague gesture towards Steve’s stained clothes. “Should probably…”

Steve glanced down at his shirt as though he’d forgotten their little foray into the land of the barely living and grimaced. “Ah. Yeah, good point.”

It took a bit of doing, but just as Bucky had guessed earlier, there actually _were_ spare clothes in the chest underneath the Cap uniform he’d only ever seen in colorless photos.

_Speaking of…_

It looked like Steve’s belongings weren’t the only things their hosts had been holding on to for a rainy day. After Steve laid his uniform and shield to the side, they rummaged through the rest of the trunk with equally confused expressions. Whoever had found him was obviously prepared for any eventuality and had stored a veritable stockpile of stuff that a super soldier freshly adjusting to the twenty-first century might need: protein bars (the kind that had about ten thousand calories but still tasted like cardboard despite the deceptive chocolatey advertising), bags of nutrients for intravenous application, two complete outfits, and…

“What the hell?” murmured Bucky, frowning down at the newspapers stacked in neat piles at the bottom of the chest. It wasn’t often you found media from the 40s that wasn’t squirreled away in some museum, faded and half falling apart, so these seemingly fresh copies had to be either mint collectibles or clever forgeries.

_But…why?_

If they had been planning on bringing Steve up to speed, then they could have accessed a million times more information online. Sure, he would have had the learning curve of using a computer, but it was a lot easier (and less expensive) than recreating papers that were _decades_ out of print.

Where Bucky was growing increasingly stymied by the second, however, Steve was almost detached when he mused, “Must have been part of the charade.”

“What charade?”

Lifting an eyebrow, Steve scoffed, “You seriously didn’t see what was in that room?”

“Pal, I was just looking for a place to lay low until things cooled off outside, not a thawing popsicle’s hotel room,” Bucky deadpanned. It was only _partially_ a lie, which he could tell Steve was well aware of. Yeah, he’d seen it, and yeah, he’d been curious. Years of service and homelessness had taught him that it was better not to ask, though, so he hadn’t given it much thought beyond his initial assessment that the owner of this building was some kind of freak. Nothing he’d discovered since then had convinced him otherwise, either.

Steve was clearly thinking along the same lines, although his smirk melted away when he continued, “Whoever put all this together made it look like no time passed at all. If they didn’t want me finding out where I was, they would have needed something to keep the illusion going for a while.”

“Why go to all that trouble, though?”

“Maybe they thought I’d panic,” he suggested, shrugging.

Bucky couldn’t help chuckling. “Yeah, they might’ve had something there.”

The look Steve shot him wasn’t exactly apologetic, but Bucky wasn’t expecting it to be. After all, he probably would have decapitated any clown that wouldn’t tell him where he was under similar circumstances. Steve had been relatively sedate by comparison.

“Maybe. Waking up to something like this…” He gestured to the room around them with a slightly awed but mostly uncomfortable expression. “It would have seemed more like a Hydra base than anything else.”

_Clearly._

“So, they throw you in a room that looks like something you’d be familiar with and take their time telling you what really happened instead,” inferred Bucky. “Wonder how long they would’ve waited.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t have to find out,” murmured Steve dismissively.

As quickly and readily as the floodgates had opened on the conversation, Bucky could hear them slam shut with all the subtlety of a freight train. The fact of the matter was that Steve might never discover who had found him, what they wanted, or why they had chosen to put together such an elaborate ruse. He might never figure out if anyone he’d known way back when was still alive or if he was as alone as Bucky out here.

He would definitely never find out what else was slinking around under the more mainstream tragedies that lined Bucky’s personal history, not if he had anything to say about it.

Which left them at a crossroads with no idea which way to turn.

It was yet another glaring reminder that they _weren’t_ friends or brothers in arms or anything else that would necessitate some form of interaction, that this was _only_ a relationship of necessity and convenience—they weren’t going to have a heart-to-heart and tell each other their deepest fears and hopes and dreams and shattered aspirations and all that jazz. Rather, they occupied the same positions as Bucky and every other out-of-work vagabond he met: civility, even familiarity, but nothing more.

Ultimately, their situation was very simple in spite of their rough beginnings, which was how he preferred it. Bucky needed to survive, and Steve needed to know where he’d ended up in the endless march of ages. Two goals, two objectives, and they’d already met them both. Now wasn’t the time to go reading too much into things. Steve was too new to this century to be looking for friends, and he definitely wouldn’t want Bucky as one if he knew the rest of his story. No one ever did. Bucky was and always had been merely the guy that other people ignored as though he didn’t exist. Steve had probably met hundreds of lost souls just like him, and according to the history books he’d been forced to swallow, not one amounted to anything through their friendship with the allegedly late, great Captain America. People like him faded into the shadows as soon as the hero’s spotlight didn’t illuminate them by association anymore.

For the time being, Bucky was blinking in the sudden and inescapable luminescence, but tomorrow? The day after that? Next week? He’d be what he always had been— _nothing_.

And Steve would be Captain America. The world would need him, and he’d leave. Just like everyone else. Expecting anything more wasn’t simply unwise—it was downright stupid.

So, Bucky withdrew. He nodded with his gaze firmly planted on the floor, exactly as he would if he bumped into someone on the street and they shouted at him to watch where he was going. He held out a fresh set of clothes he’d grabbed from the bottom of the trunk and merely nodded again in the face of Steve’s awkwardly delivered gratitude.

When he suggested they head back to the faux hospital room, it was without extraneous words.

When Steve offered him some of the protein bars, he shook his head in polite decline.

When he curled up in the corner with his jacket as a blanket and his bag as a pillow (despite Steve’s repeated attempts to get him to take some of the bedding off the eerie vintage cot), he pretended he was back in one of the shelters, where everyone was nice when they never had to set eyes on you again in the morning.

 

***

 

He’d said something wrong.

Steve wasn’t quite sure what it was, but the sudden shift in Bucky’s demeanor spoke volumes that his mouth refused to. Maybe people were more sensitive in this century (and wasn’t _that_ strange to think about…), or they were moodier—or maybe it was just _Bucky_. Regardless, Steve couldn’t help the twinge of gnawing guilt in the pit of his stomach as he peered over at where Bucky was asleep in the corner as far from Steve as he could possibly get.

This wasn’t how everything was supposed to go, and he wasn’t exclusively thinking about his conversation with the only human being he’d encountered since waking up…was it really a few hours ago now? It simultaneously felt like mere moments and countless weeks since his eyes opened to find himself not just in a new century, but an entirely new set of circumstances as well. He’d managed to avoid dwelling on the fact that everyone he knew was probably dead—if not from the slow, insidious passage of time then from the current affliction plaguing who knew how many people. He’d also managed to avert his consciousness from the fact that he had essentially come full circle: he’d gone from a nobody who didn’t really fit in anywhere to Captain America in the war to…well, a nobody who didn’t fit in once again. Where was he supposed to go now? What was he supposed to do? The world had continued spinning for the last seventy years. Clearly it didn’t need Captain America around to stay on its axis; he was neither naïve nor arrogant enough to believe otherwise.

But was it really the _whole_ world he was worried about this time, anyway?

With a sidelong glance at Bucky’s back to ensure he wasn’t faking the congested yet even rise and fall of his chest, Steve reached into his pocket and pulled out the compass that had meant so much more to him during the war than anybody knew. It, too, had shockingly survived his frozen slumber; he’d been utterly speechless when it had nearly clattered to the floor from where someone must have placed it within the folds of his uniform. Like a precious keepsake made from spun glass, he had rescued it before it had a chance to hit the ground. Logically, he knew that it wouldn’t have shattered. Those things were built to withstand all but a direct shot, and if it had arrived here with him, then it had to be a tough artifact to crack. Even so, he had handled it as though it would break at the slightest touch, inconspicuously slipping it into his pocket where he could occasionally trace its outline to remind himself that this wasn’t merely a dream. He wasn’t sure whether Bucky had noticed and simply chose not to say anything or if it had escaped his, by that point, waning attention. Either way, he was glad that he didn’t have to explain _that_ , especially when he was partially uncertain as to whether he was ready to face it himself. With nothing else to do and his body incapable of sleeping again so soon after his decades-long nap, however, he figured now was the best time he was going to get to rip that bandage off the festering wound that Bucky had unconsciously inflicted when he’d finally answered all of Steve’s questions.

The hinge was a little stiff, but otherwise it opened without much prodding so that Peggy could stare out at him from this tiny window to the past. Faded somewhat and frayed at the edges, the photo nevertheless looked almost exactly as he remembered it; the water and ice and _years_ hadn’t made a dent in her likeness.

Not the picture Peggy, at least. Steve couldn’t stop himself from wondering what had happened to the _woman_ as her eyes pierced him as easily from paper as they had in person. Had she remained with the military after the war, intent on proving her worth beyond simply the grudging credit she’d been afforded in Captain America’s shadow? Bucky had mentioned that her place in history was right beside his (a disservice to her, if Steve’s opinion were to be taken into account), but what else had she gone on to do with a life too full of promise to just stay home and clean like most dames?

Implications pricked at his heart like knives, prepared to reopen the clumsy stitches he’d managed to close the hole with in order to survive the weight of despair that had settled over him during Bucky’s story. Had she gotten married? Had children with some guy who’d had longer than Steve to really get to know her? Grown old and eventually forgotten all about the kid from Brooklyn she’d helped turn into a super soldier?

_She had every right to do that_ , he reminded himself despite the bolt of pain it sent shooting through the organ that apparently refused to stop beating for anything, including impossible circumstances. What else was she supposed to do—wait around for a dead man who had abandoned her to rescue the rest of the world? Seventy years was a long time to grieve, and Steve wouldn’t wish it on anyone. No, as much as it hurt, he _hoped_ she had moved on. He only wished that it hadn’t been without him.

Swallowing the lump in his throat that those thoughts had congealed into, Steve snapped the compass shut and replaced it in his pocket. It wouldn’t do him any good to dwell on it. He was still Captain America, and the world was still in bad shape, perhaps worse now than before. Peggy would be the first to tell him that sitting on his ass feeling sorry for himself wasn’t like the man she knew—that he was made for more than that. Maybe his place in the established order of things was gone, but so was pretty much everything else. Bucky had told him earlier that this… _parasite_ fed off its human hosts and made them into mindless, cannibalistic monsters. He’d said the city was practically lost, that anyone left was either hiding, trapped, or long gone.

That couldn’t be all there was, though. There had to be someone out there who was trying to stop all this, who was still working against this disease. And whoever they were, they probably needed all the help they could get.

Which was why, as soon as the sun was up and Bucky along with it, Steve asked, “Who was studying the parasites?”

Bucky froze mid-chew, propped up against the far wall and devouring a protein bar like he hadn’t eaten in weeks—maybe he hadn’t. There was a small, suspicious frown on his face when he answered, “The CDC.”

_That’s…unhelpful._

“What’s the CDC?”

“Centers for Disease Control,” Bucky elucidated, shrugging. “Probably wasn’t around when you were.”

Ignoring that last bit, Steve pressed him, “So, they research diseases and cure them?”

Perhaps he sounded a little too eager, the prospect of finding something to do that would keep his mind off the present (or the past, really) too appealing to overlook, because Bucky’s obvious misgivings intensified with his narrowed eyes.

“Among other things. Why?”

“We could help,” Steve began, his voice dying in his throat when Bucky immediately shook his head.

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a stupid idea.”

Raising an eyebrow, Steve intoned, “Stupid to try to help them solve whatever this is.”

Bucky huffed and shot back, “No. Stupid to think there’s anyone left at the CDC working on it.”

That brought Steve up short. Honestly, he hadn’t considered that. If this building was an accurate representation of the rest of the city, then Bucky had a point. Most people probably would have run, whether to flee the illness or spend what time they thought they had left with their families. He’d seen crazier, more selfish things before. Why should this be any different?

Unless the people who staffed the CDC were like him and recognized that sometimes it wasn’t about _them_. That, he hoped, was always a distinct if potentially quixotic possibility.

“You don’t know that,” argued Steve.

“Come on, really?” Bucky sighed, seeming more exasperated than belligerent. “They won’t be there. Everyone knows there’s no point. The government told everybody to go home, lock their doors, and wait for all this to blow over. I’ll bet the CDC looks a lot like this place,” he added, waving a hand towards the door to the hallway and echoing Steve’s fears to the letter. “Nobody’s gonna be there trying to find a cure for something that can’t be stopped, not after this long.”

“You can’t know that for sure, though,” Steve repeated more vehemently this time. He repudiated the idea that the people in charge of figuring out what was going on and protecting the public weren’t doing their jobs. Doubtless there were probably a few that abandoned their posts and ran. He’d witnessed countless examples of them during the war: soldiers who were either too frightened or cowardly or _young_ to hold their ground and fight for the greater good. When push came to shove, though, the guys who’d been there to protect the people they loved even if they never got to see them again outnumbered the alternative.

The twenty-first century couldn’t be _that_ different, could it?

“Even if they’re still hanging around, there’s no way for them to tell anyone when they’ve figured things out,” reasoned Bucky in a calm, almost disinterested tone. “No electricity, no T.V. or radio—maybe not many people around to hear if there were.”

“It’s still worth a try.”

Bucky snorted but didn’t dignify that with a response, which was worse than if he had managed to summon the careless words. His lackadaisical attitude was beginning to grate on Steve’s nerves again, and it was all he could do to control his rising temper as Bucky purposefully stared in the opposite direction. How could this man have been a soldier? How could he have held a post in the army yet feel the way he did? How could he sit by and let this happen when there was a chance—however infinitesimal—that there was something they could do to help?

_Maybe things aren’t so similar after all._

“You got better plans?” Steve eventually snarked at him, a small seed of satisfaction planting itself in his chest when Bucky’s expression filled with ire.

“Yeah, actually,” he retorted. “Staying alive, for one.”

“At the cost of everyone else.”

“Everyone else?” sneered Bucky, shaking his head in incredulity rather than frustration. “Wow, pal. The books said Captain America was righteous and all, but they didn’t mention what an asshole you were.”

With that, he abruptly rose to his feet, snatched his bag off the floor, and made to leave. Unfortunately for him, Steve was faster and intercepted him before he’d made it within two feet of the exit.

“Maybe I am, but at least I want to do something instead of just sitting here making sure _I’m_ still breathing,” he observed, his voice harsh even to his own ears. “It must feel pretty bad to be such a coward.”

Rage flashed through Bucky’s eyes (it was the strongest burst of emotion Steve thought he’d seen from him), and he growled, “You don’t know me.”

Steve almost laughed at that. If not for the gravity of the situation and the spark of flame in his gut that had been simmering down there since yesterday, he would have. Not this time, though. Rather, he squared his shoulders and his jaw, plunging down the verbal rabbit hole that he had never hesitated to explore before.

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve known _you_ my whole life—the big guy who talks tough but isn’t around when it really matters. The guy who runs instead of standing and fighting for what’s right, who’ll step on the little guy just to get ahead. But in the end, you’re nothing but a coward. You hide somewhere and let everyone else die around you instead of just doing the right thi—“

“You want to know about _everyone else_?” Bucky exploded, throwing his bag into the corner and crowding Steve up against the closed door as though _he_ was the enhanced super soldier here. If it weren’t for the fact that Steve had the serum running through his own veins and knew Bucky was no real threat, he would actually have been concerned to see the blotchy redness in his cheeks and the sheer vitriol in his eyes when he spat, “Let’s talk about _everyone_ , smart ass. You wanna start with the folks who look at anybody different from them like we’re gum that got stuck to the bottom of their shoe? Or you wanna talk about the ones who think just ‘cause you don’t have a fancy house like they do, you’re not entitled to the air you’re breathing? Or maybe you wanna talk about the jerks who said soldiers are worth something, that when we came home we’d be _heroes_ like _Captain America_ was. They had those guys back in your day too—the big shots who promised you the world but then stopped giving a damn when you weren’t holding a gun anymore. And yeah, maybe there were some good people out there, but they’re already _gone_. They’re the ones who ran out trying to help _everyone else_ and got themselves killed. The _everyone_ left that you’re talking about?” He ground out a bark of laughter that sounded more painful than darkly amused. “They’re a pipe dream. _They’re_ the cowards who’ll steal your stuff so they can survive another day, because what the hell do they care if _you_ starve to death? They don’t give a damn—never have. The good guys? They’re gone. The guys who’re left just want whatever you have to offer. They’re not worth saving.”

He trailed off, the fury that had propelled his tirade dissipating until he fully deflated. In the blink of an eye, the harsh, spiteful former soldier evaporated. The person standing in his place was nothing but the shattered remains of a man who might not have been so different from Steve once upon a time. That, in any case, was the impression he got when Bucky slowly turned away and murmured listlessly, “This isn’t your world, Steve. ‘S just what’s left.”

It wasn’t often that Steve felt put in his place. As a kid, he would wrestle for the last word until he earned a fist to the face; the trend had continued throughout his adult years until Dr. Erskine gave him the power to back up his mouth with his might. Now, however, he wasn’t sure what to say as he stood there, flayed up one end and down the other so that he was the one laid bare rather than Bucky. All he could do was stare while the latter dragged his bag back to the corner he’d inhabited all night and collapsed next to it as though he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. It was a familiar sight, and for a moment, the room seemed to waver and vanish before his eyes, transforming into a foxhole in some godforsaken part of Europe surrounded by death while Bucky sat amidst it all with ghosts reflected in his eyes. In that place, they weren’t so unalike. In that place, they were the same.

Then the sensation passed and they were in the future, a seemingly impassable chasm between them that Steve couldn’t begin to fathom how to cross.

_It takes time to build castles_ , his mother’s voice echoed through his head with one of her favorite maxims. Most people just said that Rome wasn’t built in a day, but that always seemed too distasteful to her—empires and conquering weren’t what constituted a good friendship. Castles, on the other hand, were strong. They were fortified for protection.

But Bucky wasn’t his friend. That much was abundantly clear.

_Whose fault is that?_ he asked himself wryly, inwardly grimacing at his own carelessly hurled accusations. It had been one thing after another since they’d met; as difficult as the situation was for him, he was pretty sure that Bucky hadn’t asked to be saddled with a confused super soldier either. Both of them were responsible for the heavy tension in the air, the suffocating silence that threatened to strangle them. The hostility that had ebbed and flowed between them hadn’t been solely of his companion’s making.

No, they weren’t friends. But in a world like this, in situations like theirs, perhaps they both needed one more than they had initially realized.

So, treading cautiously after the despicable things he’d said, Steve crossed the room and sat down on the floor a few feet from Bucky. The latter wouldn’t meet his gaze, but Steve knew he had his attention from the stiff set of his shoulders and deep lines around his eyes.

They were both silent for a seemingly interminable amount of time, Steve trying to decide what he was going to say while he figured Bucky was wondering what new allegations would be flung his way next. Eventually, when the minutes stretched enough to make the hair on his arms stand on end in discomfort, Steve quashed his reservations and boldly inquired, “What happened to you?”

Of all the conversation starters he could have chosen, it appeared that that was what Bucky least expected. His eyes darted to Steve’s face, his mouth opening and closing without forming any words.

“I already told you,” was what he finally settled on. His voice was barely audible even to Steve’s ears, but he could sense Bucky’s walls going up in a fortress all his own nevertheless.

“Not everything,” he argued without heat. “You only told me what happened _before_ , not after.”

“Does it matter?” A little of Bucky’s earlier bitterness was making a recovery as he echoed the same sentiment he’d exuded yesterday.

Frowning, Steve replied, “Of course it does.”

“Why? You’re _Captain America_ ,” he pointed out, narrowly avoiding an ugly smirk at the title. “The hell do you care?”

Steve paused, and in that instant, he registered that Bucky had apparently formed a similar opinion of him to the one he held regarding the rest of the world: a guy who talked a lot but, in reality, didn’t _actually_ give a damn. That fire that had always burned deep in his soul in the face of injustice flared to life, whispering to him that this would likely be his singular opportunity to prove Bucky wrong.

“Because I’m not just Captain America,” he explained firmly. “I’m Steve Rogers. And from the looks of things, we’re all each other has. I think we have a better shot of surviving if we work together. That means I’m not the only one in this. It _does_ matter.”

With every word, the conviction drained out of Bucky’s expression to be replaced by something Steve couldn’t define. All he knew was that it was raw, it was damaged—it was something no one else had seen before.

For a long time, it looked like Steve would remain in the dark as well; Bucky kept his mouth firmly closed, his eyes filled with conflict as he seemed to vacillate between telling Steve whatever it was he didn’t want the world to know and continuing to keep his secret despite how toxic it obviously was. Steve could do nothing but wait patiently all the while, hoping his expression was as neutrally earnest as he was endeavoring to make it. Bucky knew Captain America would listen because he felt it was his duty. What he didn’t know—what he couldn’t find in any book—was that Steve Rogers would listen because he _wanted_ to. That left the burden of proving it up to him, and he wasn’t about to shirk that responsibility now.

Perhaps Bucky recognized that. Maybe there was something that resonated between the two of them: both were soldiers who had found themselves living lives they hadn’t anticipated with nothing and no one on their side. Whatever it was, it loosened his lips and, with a deep and shuddering breath, he opened his mouth and began to speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long breaks between chapters. Part of it is being busy irl, but there is also an added step to writing this that I ordinarily wouldn't have. The chapters you're seeing were written almost two years ago, and my writing style has changed quite a bit since then. That being said, I am doing a lot more editing and rewriting than I anticipated, and it's taking longer to take what I want now and blend it with what I was doing then. I'm sorry that that has resulted in a longer wait time and hope that it has at least been worthwhile. Thank you so much for your patience with me!
> 
> Also, brief historical side-note: the CDC was opened under a different name in Atlanta, GA in 1942. It wasn't until 1948 that they gained more national acclaim, which is long after Steve went under, so I didn't think it was a stretch to say that he wouldn't know what it was. :)


	5. Brothers in Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for past suicidal ideation. It's contained in a flashback. Details are in the end notes.

_Waking up wasn’t the hard part. Waking up without knowing that he’d even gone to sleep, however, made things more complicated._

_He’d slogged clumsily towards consciousness, slipping backward and losing his footing more often than he could keep track of. There had been light somewhere in the distance, dim though it was, but other sensations didn’t filter through the gloomy haze of his awareness. It was like someone had kept yanking the rug out from under him, forcing his attention elsewhere until he forgot what it was he had been focused on before. Now and again, when he’d managed to claw his way to the brink only to plummet back into the darkness, he could almost have sworn that he was in a bed. Not the awful cots they’d had in the barracks, either: a proper bed, with blankets thick enough to keep out the chill and a pillow that you could actually feel beneath your skull. But that was impossible. In those fleeting moments of near clarity, he’d registered that it had to be a dream, his mind offering him some semblance of comfort when his surroundings hardly afforded anything remotely approaching security. He’d been in the desert too long and was probably just suffering from mirages—hallucinations that were taking advantage of his nightly vulnerability in order to make him even less satisfied with his situation when he was awake._

_The problem was that he hadn’t been sure_ when _he was ever awake. Time was nothing in that place between light and dark, an instant passing in the blink of an eye or the endless eternity of the universe. There was no up or down or hot or cold or any sensation other than_ existing _. Through the shadows, he’d merely known that he was alive. He was breathing, he occupied space—he must have been alive. Right?_

_Then the day came when he’d wished he wasn’t._

_At first, he’d had no idea what was going on. The uphill battle towards consciousness had abruptly ceased, and he woke as suddenly as if someone had slapped him. He hadn’t been in his room, though—not that he really had one, but his mind had immediately conjured an image of the bedroom he’d been given in his foster family’s house, the one that wasn’t_ truly _his and was reclaimed after he’d turned eighteen. It had haunted him regardless of the years that intervened since that aimless kid had left what feebly passed for a home, and it had taken a few seconds of distant confusion for him to remember that he would never wake up on that worn mattress with its threadbare comforter again. It wasn’t until the initial shock of realizing the passage of time had ebbed that he’d recognized this wasn’t his barracks either._

_In a daze of panic and confusion and disorientation, he had been positive that that was where he was going to die. That sterile room with its window dressings that couldn’t have been updated in the last thirty years and its dim fluorescent light right over his head and the I.V. stand with the bags and the tubes that were descending down and going into his body and he’d been captured but he didn’t know how and he’d thought you ended up in some hole underground when that happened or maybe he’d been taken back and they put him in a hospital only there was no one here and everything was silent but for the beating of his heart both in his head and on the monitor—fast too fast too fast—_

_“Sergeant Barnes, I need you to calm down.”_

_“Sir, his heart rate is way too high.”_

_“Hand me that syringe.”_

_Then bliss._

_The next time he’d woken up was easier. Apparently, someone had figured out that it was a terrible idea to leave a confused patient all by themselves when they were expected to regain consciousness, so there had been a nurse in a chair by the bed reading something on a clipboard when he’d opened his eyes. The first thing he’d registered was that she was as stereotypically American as they came: blonde hair, blue eyes, paler skin than an albino ferret. Nothing about her had screamed, “Welcome to an Afghani prison” or “you’ve been captured by terrorists,” so his heart hadn’t immediately jumped out of his chest._

_Well, not until he’d realized he couldn’t feel his left arm. At all._

_The sudden irregularity of his breathing as he tried and failed to lift his arm had caught the nurse’s attention, and she’d automatically set her clipboard aside to tell him what was going on in perhaps the best television-doctor bedside manner she’d ever studied. Seriously, there should have been some kind of soundtrack with a violin solo and morose piano for the speech she’d given him, and he’d been about an inch away from telling her where she could stuff the bullshit he’d had no interest in hearing. She hadn’t seemed to realize she was doing it, though, so he had to assume that either she’d been practicing long enough that she’d stopped noticing or he was still high as a kite and wasn’t thinking straight. He never really determined the answer to that existential question, but maybe the fact that he’d considered it an existential question in the first place was all the response he needed._

_The doctor she eventually went to get for him was a little better and, thankfully, not quite so saccharine in her attempts to comfort him. She hadn’t minced words as she’d explained what had happened and jogged the jagged bits of memories that were swirling around in the void his brain had become. There was a military fluidity to it all that had set him at ease better than some E.R. holiday special. An IED was hidden in a pile of garbage on the side of the street he’d been patrolling, the kid he was on patrol with had lived because he’d thrown him out of the way and taken the brunt of the explosion on his left side, hence the fact that he couldn’t feel much over there. He’d been fortunate to live through it and nearly died from the shock. They’d treated him as best they could in Afghanistan then shipped his ass to Walter Reed where he could get some decent care. Nothing flowery, nothing overly sympathetic—just cold, hard facts._

_So was the prognosis: the nerve damage to his left arm was too extensive to completely repair with the resources—particularly the_ cash _—they had on hand. There was a great deal of scarring, but it wasn’t bad enough to require skin grafts unless he really wanted them; if that were the case, he’d have to pay for them himself since they amounted to little more than a cosmetic alteration. He wouldn’t be able to move his arm for a couple of weeks because it was wrapped tighter than a burrito in an effort to keep him from jostling the healing limb more than necessary. He would never regain full use of it. He would never regain full sensation._

 _“With physical therapy, you’ll learn to live with the disability productively,” the doctor had assured him in what was obviously supposed to be her_ Don’t Worry, It’ll All Be Okay _voice. By that point in the predominantly one-sided conversation, he’d decided he wanted the terrible soap opera nurse back—at least then he could mentally provide the soundtrack to the pity party he was about to throw as soon as he was by himself._

_And boy, was that a party. All the reassurances in the world couldn’t convince him that the planet hadn’t stopped spinning, that it wasn’t as if he’d lost his entire left arm for all the good it would do him from now on. It didn’t help that he was alone from that point on unless someone came with his medication or meals. There had been nothing to distract him from those morbid thoughts of what was going to happen to him now, not the meager excuse for a television they’d mounted to the wall or the passing traffic in the hallway outside. None of it had reached him through the bubble that his solitude had gradually erected around him. In those days, despite a childhood of knowing better than to count on much, he’d been hyperaware of the fact that all the other soldiers in the place were surrounded by people who loved them. Parents, spouses, kids, even grandkids—they had people there who cared and wanted to make sure they were all right. Not him. No one came, not even the few friends he’d believed he had stateside when he graduated from high school and hopped right into boot camp. Not even the foster parents he still had listed as his next of kin because it wasn’t like there was anyone else he could put on the forms._

_Instead, he’d whiled away the time on his own, and the days dragged on without end until he could hardly tell one from another. There had been a window in his room, but he couldn’t gather the energy to open the curtains and let the sun in. That useless television had watched him from the corner, but the remote was too far away on the bedside table for him to bother with. The silence had gnawed at him, but it wasn’t enough to make him move. Nurses and doctors and psychologists had filtered in and out to tell him that he should at least try to get some exercise, but his legs simply refused to work._

_Eventually, even_ they _stopped prodding at him about his well-being, and his convalescence in their care expired. After all, he couldn’t stay in the hospital forever. There were other, more worthwhile cases that needed attending to—folks who had a chance of being saved and finding some purpose in life that eluded him the longer he pondered next steps. So, they’d released him to outpatient treatment, reminding him to come back the following week for a checkup with his doctor and a psych eval to see how he was coping; they’d impressed upon him the need to keep up with physical therapy five days a week, which would be downgraded to three and then one in the coming months depending on his progress._

_In his preoccupation, he’d nodded without really hearing them, his mind hovering over the one thing he hadn’t thought about when he was in Afghanistan: what the hell he was going to do now that he’d been discharged, his title stripped from him and the people who had provided his food, clothing, and employment waving goodbye in the distance._

_Yeah, okay, it was an honorable discharge with a nice Purple Heart in a velvet box that he was supposed to treasure forever because it was a symbol of his commitment to his country—but it was still a discharge. Discharge meant no more paycheck, no more place to sleep, no more free necessities. It meant an end to the lifestyle he’d grown accustomed to over six years, from the time he was eighteen right up until that IED blew his entire life’s goals out of the water. The military would continue to pay for his health insurance so that he didn’t have to shell out a cent for physical therapy and pain medication, but that was about it. The rest, he’d had to cobble together on his own when his options for housing were few and options for work, even fewer._

_Because despite what he’d insisted to his psychologist, he wasn’t okay. Not at all. He woke to nightmares of explosions he couldn’t remember almost every night; when he didn’t, he barely slept at all, too much energy pulsing through his veins that he had no outlet for. Each job interview he did manage to secure went down the toilet before he’d walked through the door thanks to the sling his arm was going to be sheathed in for the next few months. It was the first thing prospective employers had looked at, and it was likely the first thing they remembered when they decided not to call him back. Offices believed he wouldn’t be able to type—retail thought he couldn’t lift stuff—food service figured he needed two hands to flip burgers or work a register—custodial positions wanted someone who could get the job done without having to stop every ten minutes to rest his already weary muscles. It was always the same scenario, over and over and over again until he’d simply stopped trying altogether. It hadn’t done much for his already dismal mental state to be rejected with such frequent regularity, or at least that was what his physical therapist told him one day when he’d attempted to play_ actual _therapist. It hadn’t worked out well, but there were a few instances when the guy hadn’t been terrible at it._

 _The worst part was that, on an objective level, all those employers were absolutely right to think he wasn’t worth hiring. Sure, it gave him grounds to sue them for violating the Americans with Disabilities Act, but that was too much trouble and yet another cost he didn’t have the funds to accommodate. They had a hell of a lot more money and resources than he did, and all they had to say was that his arm wasn’t the reason for their decision in not employing him—which it definitely_ was _. They could just as easily have alleged that he wasn’t as qualified as other candidates, which was equally true. He hadn’t gotten an education, and with his head in such a damn mess, it wasn’t like he was about to go broadcast all his issues in front of a bunch of college kids who would look at him and see nothing more than a failed attempt at a human being._

_So, he’d merely kept existing for as long as he could. He’d finished physical therapy. He hadn’t called his foster parents for help when he ran out of the scanty savings he’d put away while he was in the army. They hadn’t called to check on him before his phone was disconnected and he was evicted from the shithole apartment he was sure he’d been granted out of pity rather than any sort of confidence in his ability to pay from his landlord. Slowly but surely, he was even wiped out of existence itself, a shadow that people must have remembered sometime when they were bored and had nothing better to do but otherwise didn’t dwell on. From there, he’d slipped into the urban underworld where middle class white families feared to tread: the world of the homeless and the outcasts._

_At first, he had been angry at everything: at the army for sending him overseas, their enemies for giving them reason, the IED for taking his livelihood from him, the doctors for not being able to restore it, the employers who refused to give him a chance, the landlord who threw him out—the world that didn’t care if he lived or died on the street like any number of fellow vagrants who weren’t fit to wipe society’s shoes or windshields anymore. He’d sunk lower and lower until he’d found himself in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, pondering the distance to the water’s surface and wondering if that would bring the sweet release he should have earned a year prior, when that godforsaken bomb decided to ruin his life instead of just taking it. He’d spent five hours standing there, simply staring at the murky depths far below, contemplating the end and whether he’d even be missed. Whether he’d even be found._

_The real kicker? No one had tried to stop him. Surely there must have been_ someone _who’d passed him on the bridge that day and thought, “Holy crap, this guy looks like he’s gonna jump.” Somewhere on that sidewalk, someone must have glanced twice at him, whether in pity or disgust or_ anything _a human would feel._

_If they had, they certainly hadn’t told him. They’d walked right by as though he were invisible, and suddenly he had his answer: no, he wouldn’t be missed._

_In the end, he didn’t jump. It wasn’t because he’d decided not to, however; he hadn’t been blessed with any great epiphany or come to the realization that his life was just as precious as anyone else’s. Nothing like that._

_He couldn’t lift himself over the rail. That was all._

_The arm that had taken everything from him refused to let him rid the world of the rest. It forced him to linger on in the periphery of society with everyone else who didn’t matter, who had been forgotten by humanity and God and anything else of consequence. It damned him to an existence fraught with concerns that he would freeze to death in the winter if he didn’t make it to a shelter before they locked the doors for the night or they filled up and didn’t have any spots left for him; an existence of picking scraps out of dumpsters behind restaurants when he was positive no one was looking, because he was still a soldier and knew how to be stealthy when the situation required it; an existence of sleeping in underpasses and on park benches and ending up in jail overnight because that was illegal but at least it was warm in jail so he really didn’t mind._

_The anger had faded after a while, replaced by a bone-deep sensation of complete unreality. The numb tingling that had eventually returned to his defunct limb had likewise metastasized to the rest of his body like a cancer, infecting him until he was immune to both his surroundings and the depression that had previously sought to cripple him. The world lost all color; food lost its taste. There was no one to care about because no one cared about him. His acquaintances were few and mainly consisted of his fellow shifty-eyed heathens, the ones who would sooner cut you than risk letting you have a teaspoon of soup more than them. He existed among the wretched refuse, those tired and poor and huddled masses who were supposed to be_ welcome _here only to find the exact opposite._

_But he existed._

 

***

 

“So, yeah. I’m not really much of a people person,” Bucky muttered, staring at his sloppy boots because it was a hell of a lot easier than meeting Steve’s gaze. He wasn’t prepared to subject himself to whatever was waiting for him there—pity, compassion, horror, disgust. Maybe a combination of all four.

A small part of him, the part that had been thrashed by the universe and thrown into the dungeon of his own mind, was unspeakably and unexpectedly relieved to have shared the burden of his meager being with someone else for a change. Perhaps it was purely the last dregs of the person he used to be raging against the dying of the light, but he deemed it almost pleasant to have the confidence that if something happened to him tomorrow, a piece of him would live on somewhere. He wouldn’t be _missed_ necessarily; they hadn’t been acquainted anywhere near long enough for that. Even so, he’d cease to be a shadow. He’d be real— _remembered_ —to somebody.

The majority of his consciousness, however, was ready to flog him for his weakness, for how easily he gave in to Steve’s demands even though he _knew_ it was logically for the best. Bucky was a realist, after all: he was well aware that he wasn’t going to make it out of the building alive much less the city in his present condition, and watching Steve fight off a score of Hosts yesterday had forced him to admit (if only to himself) that it would be a necessary alliance, at least for the time being. That meant establishing trust, and Steve was one of those old-fashioned guys who wanted to do it by getting to know one another—he was obviously not born in the age of social media and verbal avoidance.

Still, it left a bad taste in his mouth, as did Steve’s lack of a response. When the silence grew so oppressive that it began to rankle, Bucky preempted him by observing what his companion had to be thinking: “Must sound like a whiny little bitch after everything you’ve gone through.”

“It’s not a contest,” was Steve’s quiet retort, and when Bucky shot him a sidelong glance, he noticed that Steve wasn’t even looking at him. Rather, it appeared that he wasn’t the only one who thought the floor was a fascinating shade of _dull_.

Unable to help himself, Bucky smirked. “You got frozen for almost seventy years, woke up in the middle of a _literal_ zombie apocalypse, and you _seriously_ think you don’t have it way worse than me?”

“Well,” chuckled Steve, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and peering shrewdly over at him, “that _does_ kind of…”

“Suck?”

“…Not the word I was going to use, but it works.”

At that, the humor drained from his expression, leaving Bucky staring into the face of the Captain America he had seen in too many pictures over the years. It would have been unnerving if it weren’t for the fact that military stoicism was the language he spoke best and missed most.

“Seriously, Buck, it’s _not_ a contest. Everybody goes through hard times. Comparing them or trivializing doesn’t do anyone any good. And what you’ve been through…” Steve paused, shaking his head. “That can’t have been easy.”

_Well, that’s one way of putting it._

A way that he wasn’t going to acknowledge when he’d already done enough moping for one day, so Bucky merely shrugged a shoulder and answered tonelessly, “I got through it.”

“And you’ll get through this too,” Steve reassured him in what Bucky was going to start calling his _Cap Voice_ if he didn’t stop using it every time he was about to get irritatingly righteous. “But I don’t think you will if you keep going like you have been.”

“You don’t know that,” Bucky deflected, understanding it to be true in his heart but hating how it sounded out loud. Besides, he had a feeling he knew where this was going and refused to add credence to Steve’s argument that they may as well go save mankind while they had nothing better to do.

Steve, however, was a stubborn son of a bitch who wouldn’t be deterred.

“You were a soldier, and a good one from the sounds of it. You know your odds out there, and they’re not good. The streets are packed. You’ll never get out of New York now, not on your own and definitely not on foot. We need to stick together, and we need a plan.”

Frowning, Bucky was startled into blurting out, “What kind of plan?” He’d deal with the fact that apparently Steve had been busy surveying the territory while he slept later—right now, there were more pressing matters, like not having to persuade Steve to leave when it was just to get out of the city rather than to join the fight for the greater good. He wasn’t at all convinced that the subject wouldn’t come up again, but if Steve was amenable to getting the hell out of dodge either way, then he wasn’t about to argue.

“As safe as this place seems right now, being in the middle of the city with so many—Hosts?” At Bucky’s affirming nod, Steve continued, “With so many of them out there, it’s only a matter of time before we start running out of resources and won’t be able to get out, and that’s _if_ they don’t get in somehow.”

“And if there aren’t more squirreled away somewhere,” muttered Bucky in agreement. His mind flashed back to the carnage they’d left in the cafeteria downstairs; the mental image sent a shudder up his spine, and he instinctively pulled his jacket tighter around himself. No, they definitely needed to get out sooner rather than later.

“True. It’ll be safer outside the city, unless you think there’s somewhere else to go that would be better.”

Bucky shook his head, a thought suddenly occurring to him that had him pausing briefly before he inquired, “You really don’t want to stick around?”

Quirking an eyebrow, Steve asked, “Why would I?”

_Don’t make it awkward._

“I dunno, just… I mean, I figured you’d want to stay in New York or something since it’s…y’know…”

“Since it’s home,” Steve concluded for him with a nod of comprehension. If he was aware of Bucky’s discomfort, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he shifted his weight to buy some time to think, then replied, “It _is_ home, but not like this. There’s nothing here anymore, and there won’t be until we fix things. When that happens… Well, I can always come back.”

_There it is._

“We?” asked Bucky reluctantly. He was pretty sure he hadn’t agreed to any of that yet, but the way Steve said it, he’d have thought they’d signed the contract already.

Steve, to his credit, at least had the grace to _look_ abashed but nevertheless pointed out, “If we’re going to get out of the city together and haven’t got anywhere else to go, why not?”

“Pretty sure I already told you why not,” argued Bucky, sensing that this was not going to be a dispute he was likely to win, especially when Steve’s eyes hardened _just_ enough to indicate his resolve without the underlying annoyance he’d exuded the previous night. They hadn’t known each other long, but they didn’t have to for Bucky to get that that was dangerous.

“What else is there to do?”

“Hole up somewhere with food and water and wait for everything to blow over.”

“You _know_ that’s not going to happen.”

“What, you’re an expert on Hosts now?” scoffed Bucky. “You haven’t been awake a _day_ yet.”

Steve plowed right through his rebuttal, “I don’t need to have all the answers to see the lay of the terrain. You said this happened in a few _weeks_ —around the _world_. If it’s moving that fast and is that potent, then it’s not going away soon, and there’s no chance you’ll survive it if we don’t figure out where it’s coming from and stop it at the source.”

 _Okay_ , mused Bucky with an internal roll of his eyes, _now this is the Steve Rogers I learned about._

“Pal, you can’t just punch parasites into submission,” he pointed out. “There are these people called _scientists_ —might be after your time, but—"

“You know what I mean, Buck,” sighed Steve in exasperation, but not without a tiny shred of amusement. “Anybody working on a cure is going to need all the help they can get. And if this makes it more worth your while, then don’t think of it as helping _them_. It’s just another way to survive. Better than standing still.”

It would have been easier to say no if he hadn’t been so goddamn _earnest_ about it. Seriously, how was Bucky supposed to argue with that? After all, it was a valid point: helping with a cure—if there was anyone left trying to find one—equaled survival. It equaled another day of existence in this endless cycle of half-life he’d been stuck in for three years, the cycle he’d shared with Steve only for him _not_ to run like any other sane person would.

Did he owe Steve for that? Did he even _want_ his company, or just his help getting out of Manhattan? Were the two really mutually exclusive anymore?

Sighing, Bucky ran a hand through his hair and knew he was going to regret his decision when he evaded, “Let’s worry about our exit strategy first. Then we’ll figure out the rest.”

“So, you’ll do it?” wheedled Steve with that obnoxious little victory smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. Bucky actually rolled his eyes this time.

“No promises. We still have an army of Hosts between us and the outside, and odds are we’re not gonna make it. Well, _I_ won’t—you’ll just _Captain America_ your way through. Can you even _get_ infected?”

Steve frowned for a moment. “I’m not sure. The serum keeps me from getting sick, but I don’t know if this would be too much for it.”

“Great,” groaned Bucky, knocking his skull against the wall behind him. Steve appeared in his peripheral vision as he rose to his feet.

“One thing at a time,” he reiterated. “We find a way out of the city, and then we get some answers.”

Bucky didn’t respond to that—there really wasn’t much he could say. He’d either agree to something he still wasn’t positive he was willing to do, or he’d shoot himself in the foot by telling Steve they needed to go their separate ways as soon as they reached the more rural areas. As things stood right now, he wasn’t sure which would be worse.

 

***

 

The two days it took them to gather what they needed for their journey was pure torture for Steve.

In the war, everything had moved faster. There wasn’t time to dawdle when the Germans were advancing or Hydra was creating weapons designed to obliterate entire cities in a single blast. They had to be ready and meet the threat right away if they were going to survive, not to mention if they were going to safeguard the civilians that were caught in the crossfire. Even prior to his enlistment, Steve hadn’t been the type to look before he leapt. It was much simpler to dive in headfirst and deal with the consequences later. That had been his mindset going into the military, and he couldn’t say that it had changed a whole lot since.

In this instance, on the other hand, acting too quickly would be more of a hindrance than a boon. It would be more likely to get them both killed than taking it slow, something Steve was almost painfully aware of the longer he remained in this strange new world.

Searching the compound wasted hours of daylight, especially on Bucky’s end. While Steve could wade through entire floors in a matter of minutes, Bucky didn’t have the benefit of the serum running through his veins, so it took longer for him to do…pretty much everything. Of course, it also didn’t help that his left arm dangled uselessly at his side unless he spotted Steve watching and attempted to put it to use. The results were never as great as he probably hoped.

Steve never said anything about it; he wasn’t foolish enough to believe that Bucky confiding in him meant that he trusted Steve any more than the next guy. And who could blame him? With a disability like his, Steve had no doubt that Bucky had been on the receiving end of his fair share of ridicule, just as Steve had stomached countless insults to his size and health when he was younger. They were alike in that regard, and Steve thought he knew better than anyone that words would only make the situation worse. Instead, he made it his foremost priority to hunt down an infirmary of some kind and strip the place of any morphine they had left. Anything that would ease Bucky’s obvious and ill-concealed pain without patronizing him in the process would make both their lives that much simpler.

They located the medical bay the second morning of their scavenging. The morphine, however, was conspicuously absent.

Fortunately, Bucky was more knowledgeable about modern medicine and grabbed a bottle of pills with a label that denoted them as _Advil_. They didn’t look very potent, but according to Bucky, they would do the trick.

That was about as private as he allowed their conversations to get, which had ceased to surprise Steve in the slightest. Although he had no problem with filling Steve in on things he needed to know about the twenty-first century (There was apparently a small, black rectangle that acted as a telephone, television, and machine that could tell you _anything_ about _anything_ in seconds all at the same time. He really wanted to get his hands on one of those.), he said little else about his own experiences, especially since he’d gotten out of the army. He let some things slip on occasion—like the fact that his parents had died in a car accident and he didn’t remember them because he’d been so young at the time—but otherwise, he was content to stick to business.

Steve tried to tell himself it wasn’t personal, that it wasn’t done out of cynicism or ulterior motives. After all, Bucky had basically told him he’d spent three years not talking to anyone with any regularity, so it wasn’t like he could expect that to change overnight. It was just difficult; the silence left him with too much time to dwell on all that had changed and all that he had left behind. It gave him too many opportunities to _think_ and opened his mind to dreams filled with water and ice and cold.

If anything, that pushed him to accelerate their departure. The last thing he needed was to give Bucky enough time to change his mind about sticking together, even if he was still clearly on the fence about what would happen after their escape. Part of Steve couldn’t really blame him for that. There was no denying that the universe had chewed him up and spit him out, and the skinny kid from Brooklyn who’d trudged home with black eyes for getting involved in affairs that didn’t necessarily have to do with him understood the appeal of giving up despite his own inability to do so.

The other part still, after all that Bucky had told him, wondered how he could be so selfish.

Not that Steve could claim that his reasons for wanting Bucky to come with him were purely altruistic either. Sure, Steve didn’t want to see him come to the same terrible end as the other inhabitants of the building they’d made their base of operations. In spite of his frequent surliness and loose definition of morality in the face of catastrophe, Bucky was a good man. He was merely a good man who’d been beaten down by the world, and if Steve couldn’t relate to _that_ , then he was a damn hypocrite.

While there were plenty of reasons to aid his reluctant and distrustful companion, however, there was also no use arguing that Bucky being the only person he knew played a large role in his own motives. Much as Steve wanted to protect him as a sort of friend—the closest thing he had to one right now—he likewise couldn’t bear the idea of losing the one person he had on his side _again_ in such a short amount of time. If they stuck together, he could do everything in his power to keep a good man alive, but he could also ensure that his sole lifeline didn’t get slaughtered in this heinous mess. Surely it had to even out, right?

It was a thought that occurred to him whenever they were slowed down by Hosts they didn’t realize were hiding right around the corner. For the most part, the building was secure, but it appeared that there were a few holdouts who had stayed even after everyone else had evacuated. Taking shelter hadn’t guaranteed their survival, though, and they’d become more of the same mindless cannibals Steve and Bucky had dealt with in the cafeteria. It never got easier, but Steve at least grew acclimated to the notion that putting them down was necessary. Like dealing with a rabid dog, sometimes it was better to just do it fast so that they wouldn’t have to suffer anymore—and, preferably, before one of them got bitten and they tested just how contagious this parasite truly was.

So far, they’d gotten lucky. There had been a few dozen Hosts scattered on various floors, though they weren’t congregated in one place, and both he and Bucky had managed to dispatch them with little difficulty. In general, they weren’t carrying anything of any value, but Bucky had been almost inordinately pleased when one of them happened to be a security guard—an armed one.

“What?” he’d asked incredulously when Steve raised an eyebrow at his enthusiasm, checking the clip before stowing the gun in its case and clipping it to his belt. “This is a damn good Glock.”

Steve had to agree with that. Never in his life had he seen anything like the weapon Bucky took an immediate liking to; what they’d carried during the war had been functional but nowhere near as advanced as the pilfered handgun. It was certainly more capable of handling a crowd than a knife, which Bucky continued to use rather than wasting his limited ammunition on their little scavenging ventures. According to him, having it for emergencies was worth the risk that Steve hadn’t registered.

“It’s not just a bite that passes it,” he explained while they ate a paltry meal of protein bars and bottled water a few hours later.

“But you said…”

“Yeah, but there’s other stuff. These things are in the blood. They multiply or something. I’ve seen guys just get a few drops on their skin, and _bam_ —sick. That’s why I told you not to touch the stuff on your shirt the other day.”

Nodding slowly, Steve clarified, “So, it’s not just in saliva.”

“Nope,” Bucky confirmed solemnly. “Bodily fluid. That can’t end badly in a city where people piss on the sidewalk like it’s a latrine.”

“That’s why you wear gloves,” observed Steve in dawning realization. He’d noticed early on but thought it was a simple (and perhaps slightly compulsive) hygienic practice: Bucky never left their shared space in Steve’s fake room without his ragged gloves on, and after wrangling Hosts, he would soak them overnight in a bowl of diluted disinfectant they’d nicked from a custodial closet on the other end of the corridor.

“Gotta take precautions when you’re dealing with close combat. So, don’t go punching any of ‘em in the face unless you’re covered.”

“Roger that.”

 

***

 

It took one week—one week of gathering supplies, hunting down spare clothes, observing the movements of the Hosts outside, mapping out a route and an alternate route and an _alternate_ alternate route… By the time they could finally say they were ready, Bucky was about to vibrate out of his skin with either nerves or anticipation. There was no denying that he was in better shape now than he had been when he arrived, but it still made him anxious to know that they would be stepping out into the unknown once more, and even the best of their plans could be rendered absolutely useless depending on what they found when they got there.

This time, though, he at least had a super soldier on his side. That had to be worth something. Of course, given that said super soldier was _utterly insane_ , maybe it wasn’t saying much at all.

“I can’t believe _this_ is your brilliant idea,” Bucky hissed, his eyes darting this way and that as he scouted the underground parking garage for Hosts. It wasn’t the most advantageous position, to be sure, watching their backs when the afflicted could jump out at them from between cars—or under them—or dark corners—or fall from the level above—

“Didn’t hear you coming up with a better one.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you shot all mine down, punk.”

He could practically hear Steve’s smirk when the latter replied, “Rooftops were never going to work.”

“They’d keep us off the ground and away from the Hosts,” argued Bucky for perhaps the thousandth time that morning—not including the other million or so from the night before.

“Of the two of us”—Steve paused, and Bucky could hear the shift of cloth against the concrete floor—“which one is more likely to survive falling from that height?”

“Not gonna fall.”

“You willing to bet on that?”

Bucky merely mumbled incomprehensible profanity and didn’t answer, shifting his attention to the eerily empty space around them and hoping that that didn’t change anytime soon. Okay, _yeah_ , rooftops weren’t the _greatest_ plan in the world—there was too much that could go wrong—but that was nothing compared to Steve’s scheme. “Just hurry up already. If I’m gonna die down here, I don’t want to draw it out.”

There was a snort of laughter from behind him right before a deafening roar echoed through the garage, drowning out the reverberations of their own voices as Steve finally got the motorcycle running. With one eye on their surroundings, Bucky turned to see him throwing a leg over the seat and gesturing for Bucky to join him. It took every ounce of his courage and willpower and nerve and stupidity to oblige him.

Because when people were afraid they’d reached the end of the world, they made sure they evacuated _in a car_ and left the goddamn deathtrap motorcycle behind. Clearly, Steve hadn’t gotten the memo.

Now wasn’t the time to resume that debate, though. Not when the sound of the engine would be a beacon to any Hosts for _miles_ that something was alive in the city and waiting to be devoured.

As soon as Bucky was perched none too securely on the obscenely tiny pad of a seat, he tapped Steve’s shoulder once and gripped the back of his uniform tightly as Steve gunned the engine. Under any other circumstances, it might have been exhilarating: Bucky had never been on a motorcycle, nor had he driven anything more substantial in years. Therefore, it was a strange feeling to be moving through the air at speed, winding down the narrow passage toward the street with absolutely nothing between him and the rest of the world except his clothes and the helmet Steve had insisted he wear. Apparently, he believed that super soldier craniums were made of tougher stuff than the average human. On that, they were in agreement, and Bucky had accepted the headgear gladly.

Besides, Steve wasn’t exactly unprotected. He’d donned his Captain America suit that morning, rightfully claiming that it would be better armor against Hosts than the T-shirt and khakis he’d been issued by whoever owned that building. Even in the face of a zombie apocalypse, there was nothing more surreal than seeing Captain America walk outside, shield and all, ready to take on the universe.

His shield, as it happened, was central to Steve’s imbecilic plan to drive a motorcycle into a city packed with Hosts. It was honestly the only thing that had kept Bucky from outright refusing and demanding they come up with something else.

 _Motorcycles have better speed_ , Steve said.

 _They can get further on a tank of gas_ , Steve said.

 _They’re easier to maneuver in a pinch_ , Steve said.

They were also _vulnerable_ , no better than walking, albeit faster.

Bucky forced his _Advil_ -treated left hand to close more securely around the strap on Steve’s shoulder, moving his right to the round disc hooked to the former’s back as they descended fast and emerged into brilliant sunlight. Bucky had to shut his eyes against the sudden glare, and he felt the bike jerk to the side underneath him, changing direction so suddenly he nearly lost his balance and had to tighten his knees on both sides of the metal monstrosity to avoid flying off.

“Hang on!” shouted Steve, as if he needed _that_ little reminder. With a burst of speed, they straightened out and blasted forward. It took another moment before Bucky was able to open his eyes again, but when he did, he almost wished he hadn’t.

They were _everywhere_.

Hosts lined the street, turning to watch them in slow motion as they zoomed past on the bike. Bucky didn’t dare to glance back and see if they were in pursuit; he already knew the answer to that. What lay before them was more important. What lay before them, they could do something about.

It had to be the serum that gave Steve whatever superhuman ability it was that had him steering the bike between Hosts as if they were nothing more than inconvenient orange cones someone had forgotten to pick up. Their dead eyes followed, bloodstained hands reached out—but somehow they were always just an inch too far away as Steve narrowly avoided them and mounted the curb with a jarring bump.

“Now!” he shouted, driving as close to the wall as he dared while Bucky pulled the shield from its harness and slipped his arm through the inner strap.

In the course of their planning, this was the part they knew had to go off without a hitch. There was no way he would be able to hold the shield under the weight of even a single Host with his left arm, which meant they were limited in how this was going to work. Ultimately, all their options had boiled down to one: Steve kept the wall of the buildings they shot past to their left while Bucky held the shield on their right, forming a barrier between them and the Hosts that he spotted moving more rapidly towards them from the street up ahead. Every now and again, he could hear the telltale _tings_ and the scrapes of fingernails against metal, the noise increasing in frequency as they entered thicker crowds that had already seen them coming.

“Keep it steady,” warned Steve over the earsplitting hum of the engine.

“Just worry about not crashing!” shouted Bucky, tucking his left arm in front of him as they passed through an intersection and he nearly lost it on a car’s side mirror.

He could hear Steve laughing, as though the idea in itself was preposterous, and Bucky thought that the flourish with which he spun them onto another street was the most sarcastic he’d ever witnessed. There was no time to reprimand him for that, though, because he had to brace himself against Steve’s back as three Hosts tired of the chase and threw themselves at the bike, landing hard against the shield.

The speed they lost in the turn left an opening just wide enough for one to reach above the metal barrier and claw at Bucky’s eyes. He just barely reached his left hand over in time to block it, then immediately regretted his decision when Steve hit the accelerator and he could feel himself reeling backward as the extra weight of the Host, whose wrist he was still holding onto, dragged him towards the ground—

Steve slammed on the brakes, sending him careening forward and all the breath whooshing out of his lungs as his chest hit Steve’s back _hard_. He lost his grip on the Host in the process, which was all the indication Steve needed to urge the motorcycle on with the sound of crunching bones echoing behind them.

“Holy crap,” Bucky whispered shakily, struggling to keep his trembling right arm from losing its grip on the shield and landing them in even more trouble.

“You all right?” called Steve, the wind unable to drown out his subtle concern.

Bucky nodded and, when he remembered that Steve may have been enhanced but didn’t have eyes in the back of his head, hollered, “Yeah. Thanks for that.”

“Just hang in there—we’ll lose them in the tunnel.”

It wasn’t until after an absentminded nod and another turn that Bucky realized what Steve meant.

“No—wait!”

_Too late._

“Damn it!” Steve shouted.

The tunnel, of _course_ , was blocked. They should have seen that coming, but Bucky hadn’t considered that they would end up traveling along the beaten path. He hadn’t even considered telling Steve that if the roads in the city were congested with abandoned vehicles and debris, there was no way in hell that they would get through the most obvious evacuation route. Instead, he hadn’t even thought about it; it had completely slipped his mind and left them in the middle of a two-lane nightmare to rival any traffic jam in history.

Cars and trucks littered the channel, which he could barely see in the rapidly fading light of the sun behind them. With no power to run the underground bulbs, it was as if they were driving into a black hole; the darkness ahead was complete, much deeper than anything he had ever witnessed. Living on the streets, there had always been illumination somewhere. The city had no shortage of fluorescents, throwing light and shadows alike until it was almost impossible to believe that there were places in the world where it wasn’t so perpetually bright. Now, Bucky cursed under his breath and simply hoped that Steve would be able to see through the murky blackness more effectively than he could. His all too mortal eyes were practically worthless; squinting and straining made no dent in the wall of darkness that pressed against them.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it. The commute wouldn’t have been such a big deal on a normal day—the motorcycle was slim enough that, if they were careful and Steve’s sight was up to its enhanced snuff, they could easily dart between the stopped vehicles.

That, however, was where the Hosts were gathered. And unless his ears were very much mistaken, they were heading right for the roadblock with all the speed of a rocket.

_This is it…_

Bucky closed his eyes, pulling the shield close and ducking his head as low as he could to await the inevitable—the moment the bike couldn’t go any further and they were stuck in the abyss with nothing but the mostly dead for company—

Which was when gravity lost all meaning.

A shout escaped him as he felt his seat coming out from under him, and for a moment, Bucky thought for sure that he must have fallen. When he mustered the wherewithal to crack an eye open, however, it was to see that Steve had turned on the bike’s headlight and literally _thrown_ them into the air, one of his feet moving back to the accelerator from where he had clearly used it to kick off the ground.

There were no words to describe Bucky’s thoughts—shocked, confused, pissed, pissing _himself_ —when Steve grabbed the rail on the access walkway and, holding the bike with just his legs, flipped them over the top.

It happened too quickly for him to lose his grip, thank _God_ , or else Bucky would have been nothing more than a splat of human remains on the concrete. Rather, it was the bike that hit the ground, tires first, and propelled them on their way as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired. As if there was nothing to see here, folks.

As if a stupid super soldier hadn’t just flipped them over a line of cars and a guard rail like it was an average Tuesday.

_I think I’m gonna be sick…_

“Buck, you with me back there?”

Shaking his head, Bucky realized Steve must have called to him a few times and hoarsely yelled, “Still here.”

“I don’t think we’ll need that anymore.” Steve jerked his head toward the shield and, peering over his shoulder, Bucky noticed that he was right. By some miracle, the upper walkway was clear.

With both hands trembling so badly, Bucky wasn’t sure how he managed to get the shield back into its spot on Steve’s back between them, but he did. He didn’t know how he was able to grip Steve’s uniform like the last bowl of soup when the shelter was closing for the night, but he did. He didn’t know how he still had the courage to look beside them at the mess on the road, but he did.

It was a parking lot, a graveyard filled with the undead watching them as they whizzed past. They reached out as though they could somehow bridge the gap between themselves and the fast food on the motorcycle, their hunger not evident in their eyes so much as in the desperation of their movements.

Somehow, Bucky couldn’t look away. As Steve drove them through the tunnel towards freedom, he remained mesmerized by those who hadn’t been able to escape and bore witness to their suffering. He forced himself to categorize them all—the women, the _children_ , the people from all walks of life and races and faiths—and see how they were brought low. They were all equal now, no one to say that the rich were eons better than the homeless when they had all been doomed to accept the darkness as their new abode.

But then, they were all homeless now, too.

And when the light appeared ahead of them, growing brighter and brighter as they reached the end of the tunnel, Bucky couldn’t help staring back at them even after they emerged into the sunlight. They tore through the crowded tolls onto the Jersey Turnpike, and still he bore witness. First to the poor bastards they left behind, and then to the sight of Manhattan, vanishing slowly into the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: As Bucky tells Steve about his past since getting out of the military, he reflects on an occasion when he had contemplated jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge and whether or not he would be missed by anyone. He does not do so, but indicates that it is because he was physically incapable of lifting himself over the rail rather than any desire to live.
> 
> NOTE, 3/11: I’ve listed this as complete temporarily. The next few chapters are written but I have not had time to keep up with the length and breadth of this fic. I’ll be working on it and prepared to post within the next few weeks. Thank you for your patience!


	6. Thawing Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome! Or, I suppose I should say welcome back! I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update this story. Some responsibilities came up in real life that unfortunately made it too overwhelming to keep up with a fic on the scale that this one has turned into. I wanted to do it justice, so I set it aside until I could devote the time to it. That said, I have written through chapter ten and have the rest of the story outlined. It _will_ be completed come hell or high water. Thank you so much for bearing with me, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!

“I told you this was a bad idea.”

“And I told _you_ that it was about as good as anything else.”

“See, you say that, but…”

“ _But_ you didn’t come up with anything better.”

Steve grinned when Bucky’s only response was a frustrated huff and checked their six for the hundredth time as they trudged along the side of the highway. That was all they’d been doing for hours: snipe, look, listen, repeat. It wasn’t the ideal situation by any stretch of the imagination, but at least it staved off the boredom.

Contrary to the façade Bucky attempted to present (because Steve was growing accustomed to the subtle differences between his companion’s genuine disdain and the sarcastic variety), the motorcycle _had_ been a great plan. Yes, there were probably more prudent routes to take; they’d been more vulnerable than he would have liked on their way out of New York, and that close call near the Lincoln Tunnel still sent shivers up his spine. Even so, everything had gone off mostly without a hitch, just as Steve had intended. They’d escaped the city more or less in one piece. They had enough provisions to last them a few weeks if they were careful. The road was deserted as far as his enhanced eyes could see. All in all, it could have been a lot worse.

The desolation, however, had the hair on the back of Steve’s neck standing on end the further they traveled. It was as though nature stood still, not a bird or deer or the rustling of grass in the breeze to be heard. The silence would ordinarily have been comforting after their frenzied dash through plague-infested streets, yet the implications weighed them down with each step.

Focusing on the positive helped. There had been a few Hosts shuffling around at intervals after they’d emerged on the other side of the tunnel, although they were nowhere near as threatening as the hordes that migrated through the city. In fact, both he and Bucky had agreed that they weren’t worth stopping to dispatch, for which Steve was unspeakably grateful. He was a soldier, and as such he was prepared to do whatever was necessary in order to keep himself and his comrade safe. Regardless, there was a hole in the pit of his stomach that yawned ever wider anytime the thought of slaughtering victims of a mysterious and uncontrollable parasite tickled the back of his mind. Unlike Bucky, Steve kept hope alive that they could be saved—he _had_ to. If he didn’t, then what was he here for? What was the point of sleeping through the ages all so that he could wake up at the end of the world? No, he refused to believe that they were standing on that particular precipice, prepared to take the plunge. Steve refused to let those musings drown the spark of determination that had prompted him to set out from the city in the first place.

Fortunately, fate was on his side: the occasional Hosts they’d encountered had eventually tapered off altogether, ghosts in the mirrors of the bike rather than splotches of red against the pavement. That was comforting, albeit slightly less so when he remembered what they might do to any unlucky soul that happened to stray too close to them. Steve and Bucky, on the other hand, had whizzed past without a care, steering the bike off the turnpike and a good distance down I-95 before they finally ran out of gas.

Another point in their favor was that they’d made good time. They were just outside Trenton when the fumes they’d been running on stopped being enough to power the engine. If it weren’t for the fact that it had been so difficult to get out of _one_ city, they would have wandered closer to the next in order to refuel. Neither of them was eager to test their luck in escaping again, however, so they decided to continue on foot until they came across another vehicle they could use. There was no shortage on the roads, that was for sure. It was eerie, and Steve thought he would have found the sight of them more disquieting if he hadn’t already seen so many horrors in Europe throughout the war. Walking down the street was like traipsing through a cemetery, a bunch of unrecognizable, futuristic cars parked like gravestones in every lane. Most of them were still in one piece, but all appeared to have been ransacked long before they got there: trunks were open, luggage spilled out onto the ground, doors were left ajar in what was obviously a mad dash from the highway to someplace ostensibly safer, and gas tank covers were loose where people had siphoned whatever fuel remained. The result was a post-apocalyptic nightmare, one that there was no waking from. Life may have stopped but a moment ago; God could have reached down His hand and begun plucking up those worthy of his kingdom for all anyone knew. It wasn’t the case, of course, but it felt like it could have been.

Bucky’s reaction to the chilling atmosphere was admirably staid. He strode calmly onward to Steve’s right, speaking only when he wasn’t keenly surveying their surroundings, which was seldom. He seemed even more alert now that they were outside Manhattan, but Steve supposed that was to be expected. They were in uncharted territory, and unlike Steve, he didn’t have the benefit of enhanced _everything_ to avoid surprises. In the city, it had been obvious to expect throngs of Hosts; New York was too populated for anything else. Now, however, they were outside. There was no telling what they would find—refugee camps, militarized quarantine zones, or maybe just a long stretch of nothing until the stench of death met the sea? Making predictions was futile, although Steve hoped beyond hope that it wasn’t the lattermost.

Setting that thought aside, he mentally returned to what they’d accomplished rather than the obstacles they would undoubtedly soon face. At the end of the day, they were still alive, and they were still together. Steve wasn’t quite sure how long either would last, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, he had a few incentives he could offer to keep Bucky around for his own protection as well as other reasons he hesitated to dwell on. A super soldier was a powerful ally, after all. Not only that, but thanks to the serum, Steve didn’t need much sleep, so it would be easier for Bucky to get some rest when he could trust someone else to hold down the fort. He could also go a while without eating despite the calories he burned through, which meant he could ration what they had and let Bucky consume more to keep up his strength. That wasn’t even mentioning the adage that there was simply strength in numbers. They stood a better chance together than apart, and Bucky wasn’t so stubborn that he would ignore the clear advantages of teamwork.

At least, that was what he hoped. It didn’t escape his notice that as they walked, Bucky’s eyes were drawn to the houses that peeked out from neighborhoods just off the highway—the ones that were fairly remote and reasonably defensible. It happened a few times before he realized Steve had caught him, and he awkwardly cleared his throat to mumble something about figuring out where they were going to stay for the night. Steve didn’t call him on the lie: he didn’t want to have that conversation until it was absolutely necessary for fear of driving Bucky off instead of giving him reason to stay. So, although he felt the unmistakable urge to issue one of his best _Responsible Citizen_ speeches, as Howard called them, he kept his mouth shut and played along.

That lasted until nightfall. Then there was nothing better to do than figure it all out.

And Steve meant _all_.

“I think this one should be fine,” murmured Bucky as they wandered up the driveway of a two-story house surrounded by a copse of trees. While it was right off the thoroughfare, it wasn’t part of a development where they would be surrounded by potentially occupied homes. Actually, there wasn’t much else there at all, the trees hiding the house from view of the neighboring structures. The only other building nearby was an electric company further down the road, but if it was inhabited, Steve could spy no sign from the street and wasn’t keen on investigating to find out.

The house itself was nothing to sniff at: its moderate size would give them plenty of space to maneuver in, and it didn’t have many points of entry to barricade. Two floors would make it easier to defend as well, but it would also be more difficult to escape if the first was compromised. For him, there was no issue; Bucky was another matter entirely. Former soldier or not, there was no way he would be able to jump from the second story without risking major injury, and that would slow them down both in case of an emergency and in general. Neither of them could chance bodily harm right now, not that they had much choice if push came to shove. There was nothing more defensible in sight, however, and strategically speaking, the house had more advantages than disadvantages. So, when Bucky glanced back for his approval, Steve willingly offered it and approached the front entrance with carefully measured steps. Just because this was a good location didn’t mean they wouldn’t find anyone inside who might not be so happy to see them—or might be all _too_ happy.

As he advanced on the door, Steve held his shield at the ready and was about to test the knob when Bucky brushed right past him and beat his fist loudly against it without hesitation.

“What are you doing?” demanded Steve, grabbing Bucky’s wrist before he could do more to betray their position. The look he got was almost scathing in its incredulity.

“If there’s something inside, it’ll hear and come running. No surprises,” he explained quietly as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

Steve watched him for a second, letting that sink in before reluctantly conceding that he had a point and releasing his hand. They’d relied on Steve’s superhuman hearing in the complex where they’d met, so he hadn’t yet pondered other methods of determining habitation. It wasn’t often that someone got the jump on him when formulating a strategy, but Bucky had been in this mess a lot longer than Steve. Of the two of them, he was higher ranking in this instance. Deferring to his authority was natural albeit the reverse of what Steve had grown accustomed to in the army.

Sure enough, silence stretched between them for only a minute when something hard banged against the door from the inside, followed by two more loud thumps and a sound like fingernails scratching against the wood. Visibly satisfied, Bucky stepped aside, motioning Steve forward with what he barely deciphered as a smirk in the near darkness.

“After you,” he graciously invited. Steve couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him.

“Awfully kind of you.”

“I’m nothing if not a gentleman.”

Steve shot him a look he hoped conveyed just how much of a gentleman he believed Bucky to be (and got his middle finger for the trouble), then took the doorknob in hand and forced the latch. Kicking it in the rest of the way, he heard the Hosts hit the wall behind the doorjamb and darted inside. He grabbed the first—a woman, barely older than himself from her appearance—by the wrist, hauled her out from the other side of the door, and slammed her headfirst into the table in the foyer. He didn’t pause to watch her hit the floor. Instead, he kicked the man who came after him from the rear in his forehead, shattering his skull with a telltale crunch. Using his momentum, he whirled around and prepared to take down the final figure in the shadows—

And stopped.

Even in the dim moonlight filtering through from outside, he could make out the glossy hazel eyes staring up at him in blank fascination. He knew there was nothing behind them, that the brain was just as empty as everything else in that small body, but he still couldn’t bring himself to raise his shield.

It turned out he didn’t have to. There was a soft _whoosh_ , a grotesque squelch, and the Host fell forward onto the rug with a familiar knife protruding from its head. When Steve managed to tear his eyes from the body (a _child’s_ body, a child who couldn’t have been more than twelve, a child who probably would have gawked at him and realized _that was Captain America_ if he’d been able to), it was to see Bucky’s silhouette in the doorway, his face obscured by shadows. Steve’s first thought wasn’t flattering, but then Bucky spoke and sounded as though the universe was crushing him where he stood.

“You can’t hesitate,” he quietly chided, stepping further inside without so much as a passing glance at the carnage. “It’ll get you killed.”

“It was…” Steve wasn’t conscious of the fact that he’d spoken until he trailed off, uncertain of how to finish that sentence. It was a _kid_? It was a _Host_? It was _wrong_? It was _necessary_? All were right.

All were _wrong_.

And despite his inability to finish, Bucky seemed to understand. The warmth of his hand where he laid it on Steve’s shoulder was a small comfort for what they’d had to do. They were close enough that Steve could finally see his face, as well as all the demons hiding behind his eyes—the women and children, the Hosts and the enemies of the state. They stared back at him with the same dead expression as the child on the floor as Bucky told him, “War’s not over yet, Steve.”

“No,” he sighed after a long minute, shifting his gaze to the family they’d just slaughtered in the name of their own survival. “I guess it’s not.”

 

***

 

It wasn’t that Bucky believed Steve wasn’t capable. Far from it—Steve was probably the most capable person he’d ever known. That was really saying something, too, considering the company that Bucky had been keeping until seven weeks prior. The homeless had to be competent, at least with the stuff that mattered; if they weren’t, it wouldn’t be long before they ended up in a drawer at the morgue with no one to claim them. Steve, however, was on a whole other level that Bucky hadn’t had to contemplate for some time. There was a military precision to his coping that was both admirable and awe-inspiring. Where Bucky could hardly manage his own thoughts after three years of turmoil, Steve made it look like he hadn’t woken up from a seventy-year nap a week ago. To the outside observer, he was _Mister Well-Adjusted_ and all that jazz.

No, it wasn’t that Bucky believed Steve wasn’t capable. He was merely learning rapidly that the stoic veneer was a load of crap. Moments like this broadcast it so loudly that it was impossible to miss.

Steve was definitely feeling the strain of their shared predicament—and his personal one—far more than he let on. He was just as stubborn as the textbooks said, though, and refused to let that discourage him when most people would have given up by now. Not Steve Rogers. Not the guy who’d put a plane in the drink from the inside so that no one else would have to suffer. He might be bending in places, but he didn’t break. That, Bucky assumed, was why he had been chosen as Captain America to begin with. He was made of tougher stuff, and it was because of that that he could keep going after their run-in with the unfortunate triad of Hosts. It was how he found the wherewithal to help Bucky haul the cadavers out into the yard so they wouldn’t leak any more blood in the house and to maintain his composure as they searched the rest of the building for other Hosts and candles. (They found the latter but thankfully no more of the former.)

By the time they were sitting side by side on the living room floor in front of an expensive-looking leather couch, the curtains drawn and a pile of lit candles before them, it was obvious that Steve was dragging. Bucky highly doubted that it was from any sort of physical exhaustion; that was all him, with his tired muscles and aching feet that he absolutely repudiated telling Steve about. Instead, Steve’s was clearly a weariness of the mind, heralded by the far-off gaze that Bucky was all too familiar with on the streets and in his unit once upon a time. It was the expression of a man who had seen too much but had come to terms with the fact that there was still more waiting for him on the road ahead.

More than anything that could possibly be said, that was what made up his mind even as he cursed himself and every unlucky thing on the planet that had gotten him to this point. Because if a guy like _Steve_ could somehow muster the strength to keep walking, then Bucky really had no excuse.

“I’ll go with you,” he spoke into the oppressive silence that kept both of them from finding any rest.

Steve didn’t reply immediately, and Bucky wondered if his thoughts were so far adrift that he hadn’t heard him until his halfhearted promise visibly clicked into place. Then his eyes widened incredulously, and Steve’s head whipped around to stare at Bucky in bemusement.

“You will?”

Shrugging, Bucky averted his gaze to the candles and hedged, “Haven’t got much else to do, right?”

“I thought you said you wanted to hole up somewhere. Someplace like this,” Steve pressed with an absent gesture at the room around them.

_Damn right._

That had been his plan from the start. Like they said, though, shit happened.

“I did,” he confirmed, flippantly adding, “but someone’s got to make sure you don’t get your dumb ass killed.”

There was a pregnant pause where he almost couldn’t believe that those words had come out of his mouth. Apparently, neither could Steve, who exploded into a full, rolling laugh that had him throwing his head back against the sofa cushions behind them.

All Bucky could do was stare at first, his mouth slightly ajar not from his own bout of insanity so much as the super soldier beside him. Then again, _that_ certainly wasn’t Captain America—it was _Steve_ , and Bucky had to smile at the sight once the initial shock wore off. It wasn’t often that he could claim to have made anyone happy; he didn’t exactly have any real acquaintances. As such, he wasn’t sure what Steve would want a jerk like him around for, but hey, if it made him feel better then it couldn’t be a bad thing.

That was what he forced himself to believe, anyway. Every nerve in his body was screaming for him to make a different decision, to just stay right here or move a little further from civilization. His instincts insisted that that was the better route—the _safer_ route that would guarantee him a bit more time on the face of the planet. His conscience, however, was another story. Its voice wasn’t as loud, but it punched him a lot harder. Sure, he could focus on saving himself. This place was pretty solid as far as they could tell; the kitchen wasn’t empty, either, which meant that he could be comfortable here for the foreseeable future. This could be what he was working towards. This could be the end of his journey.

Except a voice in his head that he hadn’t heard in longer than he could recall whispered that this wasn’t the end—it was the _beginning_. Yeah, this house was what he had been seeking, but for better or for worse, he wasn’t in the same position as when he’d set that goal. However grudgingly, he had someone else to think about now. Bucky had done his best to avoid it for years, had even relished in the fact that he didn’t have to go through the motions of interacting with other people most days, yet he’d fallen into that fateful trap nevertheless. If they split up in the morning, Bucky remaining behind while Steve soldiered on, he’d always wonder what happened to the super soldier that was the closest thing to a _friend_ he’d ever had. He’d always be plagued with misgivings about how things might have been different if he had gone along for the ride. That wasn’t to say that he was operating under any delusions of grandeur. His decision didn’t hinge on some misguided desire to help the rest of the world—that was Steve’s gig. No, this was different, something he couldn’t put his finger on right away.

It wasn’t until Steve started laughing, mingled joy and relief etched into the lines of his face, that he knew: it was all down to the guy sitting beside him. This man had woken up in the worst of circumstances, having lost absolutely everything just as Bucky had. He hadn’t surrendered to despair, though. He had every reason to, but he _hadn’t_. He kept going. He’d saved Bucky’s ass time and time again when he could have turned his back and found someone else far more worthy of his efforts. How the hell was Bucky supposed to wander off and return to the way things used to be? If there was one thing he still prided himself on, one thing he hadn’t lost to the little black rain cloud that always seemed to follow him around, it was his sense of justice. Not yet, at least. Steve had saved his life, and now Bucky owed him a debt, one that couldn’t be repaid by ditching him for greener pastures.

And…well, Steve _hadn’t_ abandoned him. The niggling doubt that he would eventually leave Bucky behind in search of better company hadn’t abated; it nodded its head in time with his instinct’s screeching. Regardless, was it so wrong to hope that maybe Captain America, of all people, would be different? That maybe _he_ wouldn’t disappear?

Probably, but wherever the future took them, he was well and truly stuck now. The worst part was that he couldn’t be entirely sure how he felt about it.

When Steve composed himself a minute later, he shot Bucky a blinding yet suddenly cautious grin and asked, “What made you change your mind?”

_Million-dollar question, right there._

Deciding on the truth—or part of it—Bucky hesitantly replied, “I don’t know… We make a pretty good team, I guess. And nowhere’s really _safe_. It’s probably better to keep moving and avoid staying in the same place too long.”

Steve wasn’t an idiot. As much as Bucky sometimes wished that weren’t the case, it was true: Steve was sharp, far sharper than the history books gave him credit for, and Bucky could tell that he was reading between the wide lines he’d painted with that explanation. That didn’t make him any more willing to elaborate further, however. Perhaps it was a dying habit from a life he was slowly leaving behind, a life that had him constantly worrying about where his next meal would come from and who he would have to best to get it, where survival meant something completely different from what it did now. Whatever it was, he simply _couldn’t_ find the words. They weren’t there, even though he knew exactly what he should say. His mouth refused to form them. But from the way Steve’s eyes went soft in dim light of the candles, he _knew_ , and that would have to be enough for now.

“So,” Steve changed the subject without preamble, “where do we go from here?”

It was an obvious out for Bucky, and he grabbed it in both hands along with his backpack, where he rummaged in the side pocket for the map he kept tucked behind a box of bullets he’d scavenged from the complex back in Manhattan. Pulling out the slightly blood-stained atlas (which the newspaper stand in Chelsea wouldn’t be missing anytime soon), he carefully spread it before them. The details were blurred by shadows dancing along the colored lines in the dim light of the candles, but he practically knew it by heart from how many times he’d examined it before leaving New York and was positive that Steve’s heightened eyesight would make short work of it as well.

“We should be somewhere around…here,” he began, pointing to a spot of green adjacent to the highway indicator. “If we head down I-95, we’ll eventually hit DC. With a car, we could make it in a couple of hours.”

“Is that where the CDC is?” asked Steve with a frown as he seemed to commit the map to memory.

Bucky shook his head. “No, that’s in Georgia. We stand a better chance of getting to Washington first. Anybody left there’s going to have the military on the lookout. You can always hitch us a ride the rest of the way.”

“ _I_ can?”

“Something tells me they’ll listen to _you_ a hell of a lot more than _me_ ,” Bucky observed wryly. Steve, modest bastard that he was, shrugged.

“Not if they think I’m dead, they won’t. I’ll just be some idiot in a costume.”

There was admittedly no arguing that, especially when Bucky had thought the exact same thing the day they met. That suit was, after all, the stuff of legends. And Halloween. Some people just didn’t respect the dead.

_Isn’t that ironic?_

“Let’s cross that bridge when we get there,” he conceded, immediately amending, “ _if_ we get there. Convincing them you’re really Cap won’t matter if there’s no one left to tell.”

That appeared to get the wheels in Steve’s head turning, and he paused a moment before pointing out, “Protocol states that in the event of a threat or emergency, government agencies will be evacuated to a secure location for their protection, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then anyone with any authority is probably already gone. Going to DC might just be walking right back into the same thing we left in New York.”

It was a struggle for Bucky not to say _I told you so_ , but he somehow managed to rein in his vindication. Instead, he offered, “I’m open to suggestions if you’ve got a better idea.”

Funnily enough, he didn’t. Steve’s eyes darted around the map, hunting for some alternate route that might be more fruitful than running headlong into potential peril. There wasn’t one, at least not that Bucky had been able to find. It wasn’t like he hadn’t considered migrating towards other people before—it wasn’t really the most appealing option, but when the crap hit the fan, he was still soldier enough to recognize that there was safety in numbers. He didn’t have to work with them or even interact. It would be the same as always: he’d live on the fringes, taking what he could find while what passed for a society flowed around him. When he’d realized early on that sticking with a group was just as deadly, however, particularly if one person turned and no one had the guts to put them down? That was when he’d given up and decided it was best to go it alone. In his weaker moments, he’d nevertheless whiled away countless hours of hiding in abandoned shops by speculating about what could be left and how to get there. Each time, he came to the same conclusion: nothing was more promising than DC, the one place in the country that was likely to be fortified even at the expense of the rest of the nation.

He knew the exact moment Steve figured it out, too. The guy was too good a strategist not to get there eventually.

“All right,” he finally capitulated with a resolute nod. “DC it is.”

“DC it is,” echoed Bucky, folding up the map to give himself something else to focus on besides the inevitable paranoia that accompanied a final decision these days.

“You ever been?”

“Once. My therapist thought it would be good for me to see the monuments, know what I’d lost my arm over—that sort of thing.”

“Did it help?”

Bucky snorted derisively. “Hell no. Just made it worse, seeing everybody that died in World War II and Vietnam and knowing that I was being such an idiot over an arm I could at least still kind of use.”

“It’s not a contest, Buck,” Steve reiterated, his exasperation shifting towards curiosity a moment later. “And…Vietnam?”

_Oh. Right._

“It’s in Asia. I don’t think it was called that when you were…” Bucky trailed off and shot Steve an apologetic smile while racking his brains to remember the online military history classes he’d slogged through while he was in the army. “I think it’s… Crap, what was it? China-something…”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” joked Steve, smirking.

With a scathing glare, Bucky muttered, “Yeah, you’re real hilarious. Anyway, it was _Indochina_ , you punk.”

That certainly wiped the grin off his face.

“We got in a war with _France_?”

_Aw, man. He’s got so much to learn._


	7. Roadkill

Steve leaned back in his seat with his arms folded across his chest and a glare leveled at the side of Bucky’s face. “I still don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Pal, no offense, but if you had a license, it expired _forever_ ago,” he snorted, settling in on the driver’s side of the black Ford they’d found in the garage. Much as he struggled not to show it, Steve was admittedly taken aback at the interior, whose only familiar characteristic was the insignia on the steering wheel. Not even the most advanced cars of his time came close to what Bucky didn’t remotely flinch at; Howard Stark’s flying prototype was an also-ran compared to this. The staples were the same—wheel, pedals, a gearshift with letters instead of numbers—yet the rest was an automotive fantasy. Unfortunately, that only served to make Bucky’s point for him.

“I handled the bike just fine,” Steve argued nonetheless. A car was a car, fancy trimmings notwithstanding. Plus, while his body may have been hibernating for seventy years, his mind remained convinced that it hadn’t been more than a week since his last excursion into enemy territory. Forgetting how to drive was difficult enough, but with his head insistent that he’d done it recently? It was a lot harder to swallow than the alternative.

Bucky was apparently immune to his glares and liberal use of reason, though, which was incredibly disappointing. He’d been reliably informed by the rest of his team that both were nearly as formidable as his muscles.

“We need to work on your definition of _fine_ ,” Bucky mumbled, turning the key in the ignition. “That bike was pretty old, anyway.”

“What’s that got to do with—“

Steve lapsed into stunned silence as the car started almost _soundlessly_. There was no loud rumble or deafening burst of noise from the exhaust. If it weren’t for the way everything in the cabin suddenly lit up like a Christmas tree, he might have missed it altogether. Blues and ambers illuminated the space in the grey dawn around them, brighter than any dashboard lights he’d ever seen. Some indicators were more obvious than others, yet he was rendered speechless regardless. This car had its own cooling system, if the fan icon was anything to go by, and the radio controls were more extensive than merely _on_ and volume. The most surprising piece of the puzzle was a screen in the center of the display that showed the Ford insignia for a long moment and then transformed into…Steve wasn’t sure what.

“What does this do?” he blurted out, forgetting his determination to prove himself in favor of figuring out what the picture on the monitor was. It took a minute for his mind to make the connection, and he turned to confirm that it was filming the garage behind them.

_What the hell…_

“It’s a back-up camera,” Bucky explained with surprising patience. “When the car’s in reverse, it turns on the cameras so you can see everything behind you. Damn, these guys must’ve been _loaded_ …”

“Why not just look?”

That made Bucky laugh, albeit somewhat bitterly. “I mean, you look too, but it’s so you don’t miss anything and hit a kid or a dog or something.”

Steve nodded, breathing out an exclamation of what he had to admit was impressed surprise. Stuff like this… It was impossible by his standards. It was a dream, one that someone had somehow made a reality along the way. A part of him felt his loss greater than usual at the notion. After all, how many milestones had passed between the tin cans they’d been driving and the near-spaceships of the twenty-first century? What other ideas had people turned into solid inventions over the course of the decades? Perhaps if things had been different, if he’d been found sooner, he would know. Instead, his excitement stalled a bit to realize that there might be no finding out now. Bucky’s assumptions could very well be on the money, and there could be no one waiting for them anywhere to put the world to rights. For all he knew, the technological development that awaited him here in the future was a waste of time and space, prepared to rot and rust the way he and the Valkyrie should have done under the sea.

_No. We won’t let that happen._

It was optimistic—he was well aware. Bucky was a constant reminder of that, his skepticism back in New York nowhere near forgotten. That didn’t mean that Steve was ready to give up the ghost, though. Now that he was here—in the _future_ —he was adamant that they’d make it through this. He was going to see what the world had become, and he was going to make damn sure that Bucky lived to learn what came next. After everything they’d endured, he figured they were owed that much.

Whether Bucky could sense the direction of his thoughts or mistakenly believed that he was still gawking at the controls in awe, Steve couldn’t tell. Either way, his attention was drawn to his companion’s hand as the latter reached forward to press his finger against the screen, changing the display to something else. It was a bunch of boxes, some with a picture of a fan on them while others showed words and phrases Steve didn’t recognize. The only one he _did_ was…

“Radio?”

“Yup. You control everything from right here. Music, air conditioning, heat, navigation—just touch the screen.”

“Then what’s the point of the knobs?” asked Steve with a gesture towards the seemingly obsolete dials. The _navigation_ bit piqued his interest, but he set that aside for later.

“Guess it’s for the old-fashioned folks,” Bucky replied with a grin.

“Very funny.”

“I thought it was.”

“So, this… _computer_. It controls the whole car?”

Bucky shrugged a shoulder. “Not the whole thing, but most of it. Engine’s pretty much computerized, but not through here. That’s all under the hood.”

Somehow, Steve had a feeling that was going to make hot-wiring a whole lot more difficult than it had been during the war. That explained why Bucky hadn’t recommended taking one of the myriad vehicles they’d passed along the highway on their way here.

It was ultimately for the best. Steve watched in silent disbelief while Bucky went through a complex series of keystrokes, cursing a few times under his breath when he had to go back a screen, and then a gas gauge appeared on the display to tell them they could make it more than three hundred miles before they would need to refuel their currently full tank.

“Looks like they were ready to get the hell out of dodge,” murmured Bucky, eyes glued to the monitor with an inscrutable expression on his face. Steve, however, shook his head in amazement to stave off the implications.

“Does the car drive itself, too?”

Chuckling in spite of himself, Bucky’s distant gaze sharpened as he admitted, “No, it still needs a person to do that. They were designing ones that could, though.”

Steve blinked. He’d been joking. The concept of vehicles on the streets without anyone to control them was a little…unsettling.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Haven’t really worked out the kinks, but they’ll get it eventually. Or…” He trailed off, his countenance sobering once more. “Well, probably not going to happen now.”

“You never know,” Steve tried to console him even though he knew it was futile. After all, optimism didn’t make him an idiot: Bucky was stubborn to a fault. It would take a lot more than Steve’s reassurances to change his mind about his convictions. To him, the world had ended, and he couldn’t be the only one. Whoever had abandoned him in that building by himself, the people who’d left the safety of their homes to join the throngs of monsters, the family that had likely believed they were safe if they holed up in their home and waited for a couple of soldiers to end the remains of their existence—did any of them _truly_ believe that things were going to get better just by _wanting_ them to?

Bucky certainly didn’t, nor did he answer, moving the gear-shift to the _D_ without further argument. Like Steve, he wasn’t stupid.

As much as he knew there was no convincing Bucky with anything less than actions, Bucky was equally aware that Steve wasn’t going to give up _that_ easily. In that way, they were perfectly matched as partners. Steve was determined to show him that life _could_ move on from this; Bucky apparently wanted to keep him from falling over a cliff. Together, they were bound to survive. After all, they’d done pretty well so far. New York was behind them, they’d discovered a place to safely spend the night, they had a trunk full of everything from the kitchen and closets that would fit (the men’s clothes they’d found were too small for Steve and a bit tight on Bucky, but they’d indubitably stretch out in no time), and their pilfered car was in perfect condition. Besides the seeming end of the world, what was there to complain about?

_Actually, come to think of it…_

Just as Bucky was taking his foot off the brake, Steve indignantly blurted out, “Hang on, when’s the last time _you_ drove?”

It was hard not to be insulted by the laugh he got in response as Bucky peeled out of the garage and turned onto the main street. The sensation was almost immediately muted by the impossibly smooth ride and expert if rusty technique that had Bucky whipping them onto the entrance ramp and careening back into the easy flow of absent traffic, however. The vehicle handled as precisely as their trusty motorcycle, maybe even better, which was impressive to say the least. While it certainly made for a more comfortable ride, Steve had to admit that feeling the road jostling them every now and again would have made it all feel more… _real_. As it stood, the whole thing seemed like some strange dream; it was a struggle to convince himself that he wouldn’t wake up in an _actual_ recovery room any minute, forced to go back to a life where technology was a luxury and things like _this_ were the stuff of fantasies. His fingers itched to take that dream in hand and enjoy it while he could, just in case one impossibility was replaced with another, but his conscience kept him from asking again. The car was cool to look at, yes. The last thing Steve wanted was to get them in an accident, though, especially when he’d taken it upon himself to be Bucky’s personal bodyguard.

_To have his back like he’s got mine_ , he amended silently.

Steve couldn’t define when exactly he’d made the shift from protecting Bucky to avoid the solitude (sprinkled with some altruism, of course) to being so dead set on making sure no harm came to him, but if he had to hazard a guess, he’d say it was after Bucky agreed to accompany him wherever his travels entailed the previous night. It wasn’t _guilt_ , per se—Steve couldn’t feel guilty about convincing someone to do the right thing no matter the risks involved. Maybe it was merely a sense of responsibility when he had been the driving force behind that decision, or even _gratitude_ that Bucky wasn’t just going to abandon him in favor of his original plans. Whether it was one, the other, or a combination of both, if something happened to him out here, if he got hurt in the line of duty when he would have been fine laying low… It would be Steve’s fault. Well, Peggy would argue otherwise, but Bucky wouldn’t be out here at all if it weren’t for Steve, so it was essentially the same thing. That meant his top priority, aside from figuring out how to help take out the parasite plaguing the global population, was guaranteeing that Bucky lived. When all was said and done—and if they were luckier than Steve had any right to hope for—Bucky might be better off than when he’d started. Steve couldn’t guarantee _that_ , but they were two people with nothing in the world who had found each other anyway—that had to count for something, right?

So, Steve didn’t say anything as Bucky put the vehicle through its paces and zoomed down the highway at what would have been an alarming speed to an un-augmented individual. He simply relaxed into his seat, glancing back to make sure his shield was still in reach where he’d stashed it behind him, and watched the scenery pass them by as they rocketed down the road.

Without any other cars on the street or people to crowd them in, the world seemed so much… _bigger_ , although the technology they had developed would suggest otherwise. Bucky had told him some pretty amazing stories during the empty hours when they had nothing better to do, about something called the _internet_ that could give you any information you wanted at the literal touch of a button—about _smart televisions_ that let you record programs and replay them whenever you wanted, on top of being able to access that internet thing at the same time—about ships the size of cities that made the _Titanic_ look like a bath toy—about movies with effects so realistic you wouldn’t be able to tell fact from fiction. Steve may not have witnessed them for himself, but the mere idea was truly amazing even if it made the world that much smaller, in a sense.

And just like that, he couldn’t help wondering what the people from his generation had thought of it all. Had Peggy enjoyed these luxuries or seen them as superfluous inventions of a bored and privileged society long bereft of the conflict they had seen on a daily basis? Had she spent her money on these impressive frivolities, or had she decided it wasn’t worth it and found something else to do with her time?

Had she even lived long enough to see it?

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

Steve hesitated briefly, glaring at an abandoned car they passed as though it were to blame for his unfortunate foray into a world he was so utterly unprepared to deal with. “Those history books you told me about… Did they ever say what happened to a Margaret Carter?”

“ _Peggy_ Carter? Not much besides working with you. They just said she went on to help build up U.S. intelligence programs or something. Got a feeling whatever it was had to be classified. Otherwise, there would have been more about it.”

“That sounds like her,” admitted Steve, proud yet somber.

Bucky hummed, glanced in the rear-view mirror, and steered them around a roadblock that looked eerily like three burned cars. “Last I heard, she was still kicking.”

“She’s alive?!”

“I mean, she was three years ago.”

“…Three years ago,” Steve repeated tonelessly. Three years was a long time, especially for a woman approaching a hundred years old.

“Hey, I wouldn’t worry. You catch a lot of news out on the street,” Bucky continued, visibly uncomfortable. “If something happened to her, it would’ve been all over the papers.”

Frowning, Steve glanced at him to find that Bucky wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Really?”

“Sure. She’s one of the most famous women in history—worked with you, the whole _shattering the glass ceiling_ thing. She’s a legend. If she died, we’d all know it.”

“Before this happened,” countered Steve with a wave towards the scenery flashing past.

Bucky nodded tightly in acknowledgement and fell silent. At first, Steve thought that would be the end of the conversation, but a few minutes later he quietly asserted, “She’s a tough lady. She survived a war and everything that came after. It’d take a hell of a lot more than this to bring her down.”

_If only that were true_ , Steve sighed internally. The unexpected vote of confidence was surprising coming from someone who was so positive that humanity wasn’t worth saving or capable of surviving, but it did little to make Steve feel better about the situation. It wasn’t that he thought Bucky was _wrong_ necessarily; it was simply that those were long odds. The Peggy that Steve had known? This _would_ be cake for her unless she met some unlucky circumstances. A Peggy nearly a century old, however?

Banishing that notion from his mind for the time being, Steve settled on pointing out, “You’re pretty optimistic.”

“I’m _realistic_ ,” was Bucky’s automatic response. “The first to go are always the weak and the idiots. From what I remember, she doesn’t count as either.”

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to make me feel better or just a jerk,” joked Steve, a smirk pushing past his maudlin emotions.

“Well,” Bucky muttered self-deprecatingly, “I’m not the comforting kind, so I guess I’m just a jerk.”

A few days ago, Steve would have thought that Bucky was kidding. Now that he really _knew_ him—which was no mean feat when Bucky kept so much of himself hidden away—it was easy to see that he truly believed it. That wasn’t a shock: Steve was no stranger to the way a mind worked once it had been beaten down time and time again. Neither was it something that was likely to change overnight, though, and Steve supposed that trying would just make matters worse.

So, with as much levity as he could muster, he leaned back into the comfortable leather seat and sighed, “Sure, Buck. Whatever you say.”

 

***

 

Bucky honestly should have seen it coming. He knew better than to assume that nothing could go wrong when your endeavors were temporarily successful, even with Captain America as your copilot. And maybe that was the problem: perhaps he’d grown complacent having Steve there with him to take up some of the slack. It wasn’t like he had to be on constant watch anymore, not when there was someone more skilled than he was to have his back. That had to be why, when it all turned sideways, it did so in spectacular fashion.

He hadn’t realized he’d let his guard down at first. In the three days since they left the house in Trenton, they’d had more time to _talk_ —and that was his biggest mistake.

It started as simply filling Steve in on what had happened while he’d been sleeping: wars, events, technology, stuff that most people learned in history class or saw on television if they gave a damn—the sort of thing an aging super soldier should have had the opportunity to experience firsthand as he witnessed the world changing in front of his eyes, for good and ill. Those were the simpler topics of conversation. They didn’t require Bucky to have an opinion or offer any insight into his own involvement, particularly with regards to the post-9/11 mayhem that had ensued in the Middle East. All he had to do was get the words out; any questions Steve asked were strategically limited to ones that had no personal connection for Bucky to share. The things that he didn’t relate to eventually led to the things he _did_ , though, and before Bucky knew it, they were talking about Steve’s childhood and Bucky’s favorite shelters and Steve’s illnesses and Bucky’s recurring lack of confidence that his arm wouldn’t just quit working altogether or fall off entirely. It had even gotten to the point where Bucky was able to talk about his life before he’d joined the army, occasionally without realizing he’d said anything until hours later when his mind saw fit to replay the day’s events as though he’d be able to change it.

If they hadn’t had so much time on their hands, he liked to believe that he would have been more vigilant, yet there hadn’t been any avoiding the unexpected delays that held them up. They were stopped too often to count, and what should have taken three hours had eaten up as many days instead. Roadblocks forced them to find alternate routes; those detours were frequently inhabited by lingering packs of Hosts, former people who had probably come the same way. When they returned to the highway, they were met with calamity the closer they drew to the outskirts of Philadelphia. That, too, was something he should have predicted rather than discussing the difference between Thai and Chinese menus with Steve. Food fit for Hosts wouldn’t last forever, and eventually they would have to wander outside of the cities when it was in short supply.

At first, he thought they could just run the Hosts down and keep going. Then, of course, he remembered that they weren’t driving a Hummer—they were in a piece of crap little (admittedly, top of the line) Ford that wouldn’t be able to take the stress of crowd control the way an army vehicle would.

So, when the crowds grew to more than a trickle, they had to play possum.

The idea to appropriate sheets and blankets from the house they’d stayed in had been a stroke of brilliance on Steve’s part, there was no denying that. The point had been to stay warm in the event that they needed to survive outdoors overnight—or, when winter came, in whatever conditions accompanied it—but they were pretty effective camouflage as well. As long as they stopped the car far enough from the Hosts, they could put the sheets over the windows and hold utterly still until they were sure the worst of the crowd had passed without incident. There had been a few near misses where they’d gotten too close before Bucky realized just how many there were, but the sheets were great for that as well: Hosts weren’t in much of a position to play the long game. They wanted the food _now_ , and if they couldn’t see it, they acted like toddlers—out of sight, out of mind. So they beat on the doors for a while until they realized that no movement meant no meal and finally staggered off, leaving Steve and Bucky breathing heavily—but at least still breathing at all.

Yeah. They were definitely tempting fate. Such was the penalty for their hubris.

In his mind, they came out of nowhere.

In reality, it was probably that he hadn’t been sleeping so well the last couple of nights in the car and simply didn’t happen to notice a flock of Hosts not wandering, but _running_ full tilt towards his side of the car.

In their deep and heated debate over the merits of electric dryers versus line-drying clothes, Bucky had been so startled by the unexpected impact of dozens of people plowing into the side of the car that he jerked the wheel before he had a chance to consciously consider what he was doing. There was no time to correct himself or make sense of what Steve was shouting as they rammed straight into an overturned car and were suddenly airborne.

The next time he opened his eyes, he was alone. Well, not _totally_ alone—the scratching of fingernails against the shattered windshield in front of his face told him he had plenty of company.

Bucky groaned, cataloging all of his limbs before he attempted to move them. The situation was already bad enough without aggravating an injury and bleeding out right here in the car. Of all the places he could conceivably have died over the years, an automobile accident wasn’t really on his radar; he didn’t intend to change that now, especially when he was already distantly aware that it was his own damn fault to begin with. Fortunately for him, the powers that be hadn’t decided to end his meager excuse for an existence just yet. He was conscious. He was aware. There was still something sitting between him and certain death, however fragile he had to assume it was. He could afford a moment to regain his bearings.

_Only_ a moment.

First, he could tell that nothing was broken. Sore as hell, yeah, but not broken. That was a step in the right direction.

Second, he realized the car must have landed on its side— _his_ side. Despite his blurred vision, Bucky could spy glittering shards of glass littering the pavement that scraped his cheek through what used to be the window. The heat against his skin told him that there would be blood when he mustered the strength to pick his face up off the ground, yet in that instant, he couldn’t help feeling vaguely grateful that he wore nearly all his clothes to avoid taking up vital space in his bag. None of the glass had penetrated his four layers of shirts, so the cut he could feel oozing at his temple was likely the greatest extent of the damage.

It was still just enough blood to get the Hosts riled up and hungry, though. They glared at him from the other side of the glass, beating their hands against the barrier separating them from their dinner. At this point, the good old Ford engineering was holding up, but Bucky wasn’t about to sit around and wait to find out how long that lasted.

Cursing as his head spun with the effort, Bucky somehow managed to extricate himself from his seat belt and slip into the space between the seat and ceiling. Steve and his shield were nowhere in sight, which made no sense: he wouldn’t abandon Bucky here.

_…Would he?_

Bucky shook that thought aside the moment it occurred to him, nearly scoffing aloud at his own idiocy. Of course Steve wouldn’t just ditch him—he was _Captain America_. Even if he didn’t give two shits about Bucky as a person, he wouldn’t be able to simply leave a man behind, particularly when that man was a fellow soldier. Besides that, Bucky had been examining Steve for over a week now and could say with some level of confidence that it was against his DNA or something. Guys like that didn’t run away from a fight. In most cases, they ran towards it. Like a moron.

It didn’t offer him the most comforting mental image, nor did it explain where a gigantic super soldier had disappeared to, but it gave him a push.

And boy, was he going to need it.

The second he peered around to see how the hell he was going to get out of this mess, the car shuddered with the sudden onslaught of Hosts slamming themselves against the roof in a renewed frenzy to get at their now moving meal. If they managed to tip the car when all the windows on the driver’s side were broken… Well, he wouldn’t last long enough to figure out what had happened to Steve, that was for sure.

Thinking as quickly as he could through the sludge his brain had been reduced to in the accident, Bucky noticed that Steve’s window was still intact—but the one in the back seat wasn’t. That, at least, gave him some hope. Steve was a tactician, and as such, he would know better than to break the window directly above Bucky. For one thing, it might have hurt him more than the burning scrapes on his cheek and aches in his muscles; for another, it would make it that much easier for a Host to reach its goal in the unlikely but not impossible scenario that it managed to climb inside. While he appreciated the effort, though, how a super soldier with muscles bigger than the car itself managed to get into the back seat and crawl out of a window that size would remain a mystery for the rest of eternity.

Bucky had a hard enough time with it himself, and he wasn’t unaware of how much weight he’d lost in the last three years given his diet. It was like yoga with the added benefit that if you didn’t bend just right, you’d screw yourself over and die. Admittedly, as someone who had never done yoga a day in his life, he had to admit that that made the whole thing rather… _interesting_. If he wasn’t losing his grip when the Hosts inconveniently banged against the undercarriage, his backpack was getting caught on something that definitely _shouldn’t_ be sticking out like that and dragging him back inside. Not only did it take time and patience that he certainly did not have, but his left arm was barely hanging on by a thread when he eventually hauled himself out of the rear window into the afternoon sunlight.

Which was when he started wishing he’d just stayed inside.

They were everywhere. What had been a silent, empty highway except for a few cars scattered here and there along the edges of the road had become the rural equivalent of Times Square. Hosts were packing in from every direction, and Bucky could see their numbers stretching out towards the trees on either side. When he risked glancing down to examine what was beneath him, his stomach turned to discover that they were right up against the car no matter where he looked. In fact, the only reason the vehicle was still on its side with him carefully balanced on top was because they couldn’t coordinate their shoving to actually push the car over, maintaining the equilibrium by accident. That stroke of luck, however, was short-lived. One by one, they began to notice him perched precariously on the passenger door above them, and dozens of hands flew upwards in an attempt to grab at his jeans, his jacket, his bag—whatever they could use to drag him into oblivion.

“Holy cow…”

Part of him wondered where Steve was in all this. A larger part of him was glad that he couldn’t spot a point of red, white, and blue in the sea of death below. The jury was still out on whether Captain America could get infected, but if he _could_ , there was no way Bucky would get out of this alive. He was already up shit creek without a paddle. Hell, he didn’t even have a goddamn _boat_. Adding a mammoth of a Host to the mix would be the last nail in his coffin, not that he didn’t already have a foot in the grave as it was.

But not both. Not yet.

With shaking hands, he pulled the Glock he’d scavenged in New York out of its holster and checked the clip—full, thank God—before aiming into the crowd and firing.

It had been three years, but his aim was still true: the first bullet went straight through one Host’s skull, an older lady, and she collapsed to the ground in a heap. Not a moment later, the others had barreled over her body to take her place.

Dragging in a deep breath, Bucky closed his eyes and focused, trying to find that mental space he hadn’t needed to inhabit since his discharge. It was a place he hadn’t gone in a long time—a place he hadn’t allowed himself to look for, believing that he wouldn’t be welcome anymore. Perhaps that had all been in his imagination, though, because the moment he touched its boundaries, it welcomed him home like an old friend. Wrapped in its warmth, his mind calmed and his heartbeat evened out; the quiet of the hunt descended upon him, stilling his soul. The world came into sharp relief for the first time in forever when he opened his eyes, swung around to lay on his stomach, and took aim.

One fell.

Another.

Two with the same bullet.

All head shots, none going awry. Adjusting for movement, for wind, for unpredictability. Using the long-dormant knowledge of angles and anatomy to eliminate as many targets as he could with as little ammunition as possible.

Despite the circumstances, the tables had turned: _he_ was the predator, and _they_ were the prey. They fell before him like leaves beneath a tree in the final days of autumn, nothing more than detritus in his wake as the endless cycle marched on. He was the angel of death, the gatekeeper of the underworld, with a gun as his messenger and a bullet as his calling card.

He came for them one after another until a click told him he was out of invitations.

Reload.

Aim.

Fire.

By the end of his second clip, a veritable sea of destruction stretched out beneath him—yet it still wasn’t enough. Death fought back, unwilling to go quiet into that good night unless accompanied by its angel. They surged forward and trampled the bodies of those who had already preceded them to the gates of Hell, their hands reaching for him like salvation—

—then a deafening crash rent the air and the spell was broken.

Bucky blinked as an eighteen-wheeler plowed down the highway at top speed, horn blaring. The Hosts turned toward the noise, senselessly moving in its direction even as it mowed them down in droves the moment they stepped in its path. It was like moths drawn to a flame, and Bucky watched in morbid fascination as the grill of the truck rapidly turned red with blood and other, less easily identifiable muck.

He almost convinced himself that this was the end, that this person would fly past him or—even worse—stop to help. He nearly put his gun down beside his head and waited for the inevitable. That is, until he finally saw that speck of red, white, and blue behind the wheel of the truck and realized what was happening.

Steve _had_ left him alone—so he could go for backup.

And it was a hell of a Plan B. The Hosts were no match for the truck; they weren’t even tall enough to reach the window without mounting the running board, which they were too stupid to do given their affliction. It was the perfect height, however, for Bucky to hop aboard; based on the way Steve steered the improvised projectile to the left, putting Bucky on its passenger side, he was also aware of it.

“Get in!” Bucky could just barely hear him shouting over the roar of the engine and the scuffling of feet below.  

The truck decelerated slightly, and he jammed his Glock back into its holster while unsteadily clambering to his feet. It wasn’t what he would call good odds: there was just as much of a chance that he would be torn off the side of the vehicle as there was that he would fail to catch it in the first place. Lucky for him, he wasn’t dealing with a typical driver. Steve rolled up so close that the enormous tires crushed the Hosts without leaving any room for others to replace them. Bucky took that opportunity to swing his legs through the open window and slide into a filthy leather seat without opening the door just as Steve hit the gas, the Hosts that survived scrambling after them in the side mirrors. They wouldn’t catch up—Steve was pushing the truck too hard for that. It didn’t keep them from trying, though.

In any other situation, that would have made him feel better. Instead, even in safety, a string of inane profanity was all Bucky could articulate.

“Are you okay?” When his only response was more hushed cursing, Steve punched him in the arm hard enough to sting and repeated, “ _Are you okay_?”

“Y-y-yeah, I’m…” Bucky exhaled raggedly before sucking in another breath and holding it. “Holy shit.”

“So you said,” observed Steve with a wry yet brittle smile.

Bucky probably would have found it funny if he weren’t in the middle of a crisis cooldown and still half in _soldier mode_ , as his unit used to call the distance that would separate him from everyone else during a mission. It always took him a while to come down from that in the days when he was still accustomed to the grip it maintained on all of his senses hours after the fact. That he was even marginally coherent and verbal right now was a goddamn miracle, but Steve didn’t exactly know that, so he couldn’t be blamed for not offering Bucky some much needed space to recuperate.

He learned fast, though. Steve gave him a few minutes to find his mental footing again before he asked, “Are you sure you’re all right? You’re still bleeding.”

Frowning, Bucky reached up to his temple and found that, sure enough, there was still a trickle of fresh blood trailing down the side of his face. It wasn’t much, but it couldn’t look very pleasant from Steve’s perspective.

“I’m alright. It’s just a scratch,” Bucky reassured him. After the… _excitement_ of the last few minutes, he really shouldn’t have been surprised at how exhausted he sounded. It didn’t keep him from inquiring, “How the hell did you find this thing?”

Shrugging, Steve explained, “I saw it a couple miles back and thought it might come in handy.”

“And you knew it was gonna run?”

“Got lucky.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky snickered wearily, leaning his head against the seat and closing his eyes as his lungs finally decided to get back with the program. “Thanks for that.”

There was a pause, which Bucky was beginning to learn meant that Steve was self-flagellating over something, before he replied, “I shouldn’t have left you by yourself back there.”

Bucky opened his eyes to stare incredulously at Steve. “It was kinda necessary.”

“It wasn’t,” argued Steve, shaking his head. “I could have taken you with me.”

“You’d have been wasting time if you did.”

“And what if they broke through the windows? What if they got inside while I was gone?” When Bucky opened his mouth to reply, Steve interjected stubbornly, “There weren’t as many of them when I left you there. If I’d known they were going to come out of the woodwork like that, I’d have done things differently.”

“It’s not your fault, Steve,” sighed Bucky, closing his eyes again. “You made the right choice. And besides, you came back for me.”

It appeared that Steve didn’t have anything to say to that, and the cabin fell blissfully silent aside from the hum of the engine and the roar of the wind coming through his window. The atmosphere mixed with his waning adrenaline soothed him, and Bucky had almost fallen asleep by the time he heard Steve murmur, “I’ll always come back for you.”

Fighting off the pull of his exhaustion, Bucky stared blearily over at Steve, who refused to let his gaze drift from the road. When exactly had they gone from grudging partners to the kind of people who would risk their lives for each other? It hadn’t even been two weeks since they met and already Bucky considered Steve the best friend he’d had since he left the army—the best friend he’d _ever_ had, really.

_Friend…?_

Was that what you called someone you were comfortable around, whose six you constantly watched and who always had your back? Was that what you called a person who could get you to talk about the worst things in life without ever asking and somehow managed to make you feel better about it in the process? Was that what you called someone who could just as easily leave you for dead yet returned not out of some misguided sense of justice, but because they _truly_ wanted to save you?

_Yeah. I guess… I guess it is._

“I know,” Bucky replied, quietly acknowledging the shift in the universe. “Same here.”

Steve finally met his gaze at that, his eyebrows furrowed in obvious bemusement, and Bucky added, “What can I say? I’m with you till the end of the line, pal.”

It was the sappiest interaction he’d ever had, which was saying something after all the therapists that had tried to wriggle into his head in the past. In fact, Bucky would argue that it was probably the most honest he’d ever been with anyone. Sure, it could still backfire; the grin on Steve’s face could fade and he might still decide that Bucky wasn’t worth keeping around in the long run. For now, however, it was all right. For now, it was a moment that Bucky could call…well, _good_.

And then, because he was a smart ass, Steve had to ruin it.

“Told you I was a good driver.”

Bucky snorted, rolling his eyes. “Whatever you say.”

“Come on, you know it’s true.”

“Running over half the population isn’t really a shining endorsement.”

“It is when you’re _trying_ to run them over.”

“Not sure that’s how that works.”

“Come on, Buck, just admit it.”

“All right, Steve—you’re a good driver. Happy?”

“Very.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, check it out--two updates in two weeks. I'm so proud. :D Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! I spent a good bit of time researching the amenities that came with a fully loaded 2012 Ford Fusion in order to write this, so I am hoping everything is entirely accurate. As a bit of an aside, I'd like to point out that this story will NOT be just Steve and Bucky the whole time. This is an Avengers story for a reason. ;) See you next time!


	8. Two's Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for extremely brief reference to suicidal ideation already mentioned in another chapter.

“Damn.”

Bucky superfluously pulled the hood of the truck closed with a sigh and hopped down to the pavement. While he was no mechanic, it didn’t exactly take one to grasp that an engine wouldn’t run with human remains gumming it up. Honestly, it was a miracle that they’d made it the few miles they had. That arm dangling out of the radiator should have put a stop to their escape long before now.

“Looks like we’re walking. _Again_ ,” he added wearily, running a hand through his hair and staring further down the road in mild trepidation. The knowledge that Hosts outside the crowded city streets had apparently learned how to run wasn’t the most comforting, to put it mildly, and he wasn’t sure he had the energy to outpace an entire flock. Actually, forget that—he _definitely_ didn’t have the energy. His head was throbbing with a dull ache that had persisted since he’d woken up in their overturned car, and his knees were trembling almost imperceptibly beneath him, devoid of the adrenaline that had kept him alive earlier. That mixed with the aftermath of a battle persona that had taken him by surprise for the first time in years left him feeling so drained that he could probably sleep for a week. That was impossible considering their predicament, of course, but the fact remained: Bucky was _exhausted_.

Steve, on the other hand, appeared as alert as ever. That super soldier body of his wasn’t fazed at all by the task that lay before them, which Bucky had to envy a little. Nodding in acknowledgement, Steve easily tossed Bucky his bag and shouldered his own.

“I thought something this big would be able to handle it,” he said, his disappointment matching Bucky’s.

“Maybe a couple, but not _that_ many. Next time, find one with a plow on the front.”

“If you ever end up in the middle of a bunch of bloodthirsty Hosts again, I’ll be sure to shop around before I save you,” promised Steve.

Bucky snorted as they started down the road, their pace brisk but not so fast that his feet protested as loudly as he expected them to within the next few hours. “ _Save me_ , huh?”

“Like a fairy-tale princess.”

“I’m not the one wearing a costume, buddy.”

“Trust me, I’ve worn worse _uniforms_ than this,” Steve muttered darkly.

“Worse than looking like you should be hanging from a flagpole?”

“Much worse.”

For a second, Bucky was tempted to ask for details, but there was something in Steve’s eyes that had him clamping his mouth shut and focusing on the street beneath their boots. He’d come a long way since New York, but Steve’s wounds, like Bucky’s, wouldn’t heal so quickly. When he was ready to talk about them, he would. Bucky knew that better than most.

So, rather than dwell on the curiosity that gnawed at his stomach, Bucky concentrated on fending off the despair that increasingly stalked his steps. First, they’d lost the car and all the supplies they’d stored in it; now, their makeshift battering ram was FUBARed. Their lack of wheels didn’t make or break their endeavors. There was simply comfort in having metal and glass separating you from potential danger. There was strength and power in controlling an engine that could get them further in less time. Without that, they were merely hiking down the road, possibly waiting for an inevitable doom that fate wouldn’t allow them to avoid. It made Bucky wonder if it wouldn’t be better to avoid the interstate altogether, but he abandoned the alternative almost immediately. At least when they were out in the open, they wouldn’t be working with limited sightlines; with the enemy moving faster than ever, that was an important factor to consider. That wasn’t to say that they’d be safe just because they could see for a few hundred yards in each direction, though. If Bucky and Steve could spot the Hosts coming, then it stood to reason that the latter could also spy them in the distance as well. That meant they were back to constant and unrelenting vigilance, the way they _should_ have been operating before. Well, the way _Bucky_ should have been operating. If he had, then maybe they wouldn’t be walking to begin with.

That, however, was a foregone denouement. Survival meant thinking on their feet and learning from their mistakes, stupid as they might feel for making them to begin with.

With that lesson in mind, they followed the highway, waiting for the moment when D.C. would appear on the road signs that signaled upcoming places of relative interest. Conversation was nonexistent. Bucky could tell that Steve’s attention was as pinpointed on their surroundings as his own and appreciated the assistance. While it had been what he thought most people would consider _fun_ to talk in the car, it wasn’t feasible where their voices might carry any distance. Besides, Bucky’s own fatigue had him flagging not long after they began their trek, and it was all he could do to keep one foot moving in front of the other. Holding up his end of a discussion wasn’t in the cards, at least not until they stopped for the night. He could tell from the furtive glances Steve was shooting him that he wasn’t fooled by Bucky’s forced impassiveness, but he didn’t recommend taking a break, which Bucky appreciated greatly. He was fine. If they didn’t keep moving, he might not stay that way, so it was better for both of them to just bite the bullet and press on.

That lasted for about an hour before something heavier than his exhaustion was thrust upon his shoulders.

“You know,” Steve addressed him without preamble, “I meant to ask earlier…”

If his awkwardly trailing off was any indication, then Bucky had a feeling he wasn’t planning on inquiring after his childhood pastimes again. In fact, as the silence between them stretched into the realm of uncomfortable pauses, he got the distinct impression that Steve’s question was going to be a whole lot less pleasant than even _that_.

_Bite the bullet. Right._

Already regretting his decision not to evade just yet, Bucky prompted him, “Ask what?”

There was another moment of disquieting hesitation before Steve finally continued, “That was good shooting back there.”

It wasn’t a question, but it didn’t have to be for Bucky to hear the one that Steve hadn’t voiced. It was actually funny, in a sense. Despite his obvious attempt to broach the subject gently, he still had all the subtlety of a freight train, one that unintentionally ran Bucky over and left him mentally scrambling. It would have been naïve to the point of foolishness to believe this wouldn’t creep up eventually, although he had to admit he was hoping it wouldn’t be _this_ soon. With Steve’s level of intellect and observation, however, Bucky supposed that he’d gotten lucky to make it this far.

Not that that made him any more amenable to responding. Some things were better left unsaid, so Steve would have to forgive him for offering no more than the bare minimum.

“Thanks,” he grunted, deliberately obtuse and keeping his eyes trained on the distant horizon to avoid Steve’s gaze.

Bucky assumed Steve was feigning an equal amount of obliviousness to his discomfort when he wheedled, “How’d you do it?”

“With a gun.”

“I figured that part out on my own,” Steve joked, although it fell flat beneath the sobriety of his tone.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“There’s no _problem_. I just haven’t seen marksmanship like that.”

Snorting, Bucky retorted, “Well, I’m pretty sure they didn’t have a whole lot of time to train when Hitler was busy taking over the world.”

“So, you _trained_ to be that good?”

_…He got me there. Goddamn it._

“It’s not that hard to hit a target when they’re all over the place, Steve,” Bucky dodged the question dismissively. It didn’t sound anywhere near as convincing as he was going for.

Unlike most of their other conversations, Steve wasn’t willing to let his redirection pass this time. No, his usual tact was noticeably absent, replaced with an iron will that Bucky could feel without turning to look at him. It was that _Captain America_ aura that would bring a lesser man to his knees and have the enemy running for the hills, or so he guessed given that those Hydra goons hadn’t made a crater where New York stood back in the day. While Bucky was already shoring up his mental defenses for an inescapable offensive of historic proportions, what he didn’t expect was for Steve to stop right in the middle of the street in a clear invitation to continue the discussion—an invitation Bucky was determined not to accept. His stride didn’t waver for an instant.

But two could apparently play at that game. Steve didn’t follow. Bucky’s boots scraped heavily against the asphalt, echoing in the void around them, and they were conspicuously alone.

That wouldn’t have been so unnerving a week ago. Now, Bucky wasn’t sure which he disliked more: the solitude or the idea of having become accustomed to anything else. Only the former wasn’t a problem. The latter, on the other hand, was bound to bite him in the ass eventually. Everyone ended up alone, and if he didn’t play his cards right, Steve’s suspicions would lead them to that end much sooner than anticipated. They already hovered on the brink as it was, unbeknownst to his somehow willing companion.

_Willing for now. If he really knew…_

Bucky shook his head. No. He wasn’t going there. He’d already come too close today; dwelling on the past wasn’t going to make the situation any better.

“You coming?” Bucky finally called over his shoulder in an imitation of normality that he knew convinced neither of them.

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer.

With a sigh that sounded more like a growl, Bucky practically stumbled to a halt and wheeled around to face that trademark Cap glare every kid recognized from history class. Typically, it was accompanied by a wall of text describing what a hero he was, the best that the Greatest Generation had to offer and the bane of international threats to American security. Not in this instance. Today, Bucky took the full brunt of the good captain’s assessing gaze, and all the history classes and boot camps in the world weren’t enough to keep him from freezing under its intense scrutiny.

“What?” he demanded after a seemingly endless moment, his mouth suddenly dry and his palms sweaty from more than merely the heat gathered beneath his gloves. “Why’s it such a big deal?”

“It isn’t a big deal.”

“Then why are you making it one?!”

“ _I’m_ not.”

That brought Bucky up short. Was Steve _that_ poor a liar, or did he think that Bucky was stupid enough to believe that he didn’t truly care about the answer to a question he’d clearly been pondering for a while? Of course it was a big deal. If it weren’t, then Steve wouldn’t have brought it up to begin with. What would have been the point? They were doing whatever it took to survive, even if Bucky still couldn’t quite put his finger on why it was so important when there was undoubtedly nothing left to survive for except breathing a few more times. Did it matter how he’d managed on his own until Steve’s strange version of backup had arrived? Was it worth asking about the details of how he was able to aim, shoot, and reload with such deadly precision? There were two voices in his head, both whispering divergent versions of the same story. One claimed that Steve was digging for reasons to ditch him while the other pointed out that this was merely his way of complimenting Bucky’s aptitude with a firearm. One claimed that he would leave as soon as Bucky replied; the other, that he would leave for no other reason than that all the marksmanship in the world wouldn’t save his ass someday.

Both reminded him that there was no circumventing either and that he might as well just get it over with and leave the ball in Steve’s court. Worst case scenario: he left. That wouldn’t be so bad, right? All Bucky had to do was what he’d been doing for three years. No problem.

_No problem._

His head may have been persuaded, but something else deep within him wasn’t. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have haltingly hedged, “I was a sniper. In the army. That’s how I did it.”

Bucky hadn’t noticed that his gaze had fallen to the ground until, a few beats later, the hush was broken by the even thumps of Steve’s boots approaching him. They were slow, cautious, as though Bucky might lash out at him for it. An instant came and went where he could have, where his shoulders were drawn up so close to his ears that he believed they may get stuck there. It wasn’t logical or rational or sensible—it was _instinct_ , and it took all of his composure not to give into it when Steve finally stopped a few feet away. The proximity didn’t ease his stiff spine, nor did it open his windpipe so that his erratic breaths wouldn’t come so short and harsh. For a while, Steve didn’t say anything at all, likely turning the new information over in his head and, knowing him, coming to the best possible conclusion.

Ultimately, Bucky was both right and wrong.

“You’re a damn good shot,” was all Steve said.

_…That’s it?_

Blinking, Bucky hazarded a glance at him, partially to search his expression for any sign that this was a trap or that more questions would follow. It turned out that he discovered neither. Steve was calmly watching him, and not with any of the usual reactions that folks tended to have when you said you could kill them from over a mile away without even trying. Whether it was his military background or just plain _Steve_ , there was more admiration there than anything else. Admiration for _Bucky_ , of all people. Not for the first time, he had to wonder if the guy needed his head examined.

“…T-Thanks…?” he answered, waiting for the rest. The judgment, the misgivings, the incorrect (or worse, _correct_ ) assumptions—Bucky was positive that another shoe was about to drop.

It never did. Steve simply smiled at him, stepped to the side, and kept walking. All Bucky could do was watch until that snarky little punk called half-mockingly, “You coming?”

 

***

 

A long time ago, even by his own standards, Steve had been raised by a woman who taught him not to accept nonsense from any _one_ for any _thing_. His mom had been the stronger of the two of them in those days; it wouldn’t be exaggerating to say that she was the strongest person he’d known before joining the army. That admittedly wasn’t difficult since most of the people around him had avoided him and the word _friend_ was as foreign to him growing up as most of what Dernier rambled on about in French. When he was knocked down by what should have been a cold but ended up turning into pneumonia, when he was the smallest kid on the block or in school or the _world_ —hell, even when he’d come home with a shiner and had to endure her lectures on how he should _be more careful out there, Steve, or you’ll end up dead in a gutter_ —Sarah Rogers had nevertheless been the one to prop him up and send him back out to fight the next battle head-on. She was the first to say that if the world tried to take you down, you went down swinging and clawed your way up afterward. It had become ingrained in his memory, his very _being_ , and that was the way he had lived his life ever since. That didn’t make it easy: there had been multiple occasions over the years where he’d struggled to keep that lesson at the forefront of his mind, especially after she’d died and perhaps even more so when he was finally allowed to join the war.

There were things soldiers didn’t talk about, that much he’d been aware of without seeing combat. Although his troupe of U.S.O. girls and opportunists had spent their fair share of time around the troops that Steve had yearned to be part of, the stories were relatively thin. _Insubstantial_. They didn’t often mention what they had endured, not even to one another, because it didn’t require words. Their suffering didn’t need to be articulated in order to be felt. Their brotherhood was a tangible yet invisible bond, and reliving things that they could not change would only weaken it. He’d learned that after his _daring rescue_ of the 107 th. (That was how the papers referred to it, anyway. Peggy simply called it _reckless_ , which he recognized was a façade as he’d certainly attempted to sell her on ideas that were a thousand times worse.) No one spoke of it once they were safe and had returned to base. They didn’t mention what had gone on in that factory or what had happened to the soldiers Steve hadn’t been in time to save. Their debriefings were sterile, impersonal, and without unnecessary emphasis on the finer details of their experiences. They didn’t make light of what they’d survived, nor would they ever forget an instant of that torment, and Steve didn’t force them to break their sacred silence just to fill him in on atrocities he probably didn’t want to know about anyway. Despite his curiosity and the army’s need for all the information they could possibly gather, he’d never pushed and instead let sleeping dogs lie.

He realized only belatedly that he hadn’t extended the same courtesy to Bucky, and that night, he paid for it. They both did. 

There was no denying that they’d been a little on edge all day after the accident had brought their progress to a sudden halt. Most of the vehicles on the highway were burned shells of their former selves, had shattered windows from scavengers’ looting raids, or had been overturned by some stroke of unhappy chance like theirs. Without the slim protection the car had afforded them or the time required to find a suitable replacement shelter for the night, their options were relatively few. So, when the sun began to set, throwing streaks of orange and pink across the sky as if things were _normal,_ they grudgingly accepted defeat and detoured off into the trees on the side of the road. Open spaces were most advantageous during the day with sunlight by which to navigate; at night, they would need a hell of a lot more than just the cover of darkness to keep them safe.

That notion and how casually it occurred to him left Steve reeling slightly. To think that Hosts had become almost natural to see was unbelievable; that he had automatically adjusted to a life where he had to be on the lookout for them was incredible. He’d been fighting a war where his most pressing concern was Hydra’s advanced technology and the prospect of being eviscerated on the spot by machines. Now that the initial shock of how far he’d come had eased substantially, there was a certain normality that had descended on this situation as it had when he’d become Captain America in duty as much as epithet. Hosts, Bucky, a world that had kept spinning without him—this was his life now, and while he wasn’t _okay_ with it, he _had_ begun acclimating to it. Perhaps that was the best he could hope for at the moment.

As such, he trusted the instincts that had been honed in the alleyways of Brooklyn and the battlefields of Europe to guide them in the right direction. They would be in danger if they stayed in the open, and the towering black tree trunks that crept out of the gathering dark around them provided at least some semblance of cover, not to mention obstacles for anything that might decide to chase them. A passing thought had him briefly debating the merits of camping on the ground versus climbing into the branches above, but it was fleeting at best. The height could be more a disaster waiting to happen than a boon.

Steve didn’t ask Bucky for his opinion or even address the idea aloud. Over the course of the day, it hadn’t escaped his notice that his companion was drifting closer and closer to shutting down. His feet dragged against the ground, the energy that still ran through Steve’s veins not present to keep Bucky’s limbs moving so easily, and his head bowed further with every mile. There had even been a few instances where Steve had glanced over to check on him only to find that his eyes were closed, his feet doing their job mechanically while his mind seemed to be begging for rest. And that made perfect sense: Bucky hadn’t stopped for a second after getting trapped in the car and probably fearing that Steve had left him for dead. If he was shuffling along, practically asleep on his feet, then it was either a miracle or Bucky was one of the most stubborn individuals he’d ever met. To be honest, he couldn’t tell which it was yet. Either way, there was no arguing with him in that state. Any attempt Steve made was met with complete and utter dismissal until Bucky literally didn’t have enough juice to argue anymore. The fact that he hadn’t considered the safety and vantage point nestled securely above their heads on his own was evidence enough of that. Rather, he nodded without appearing to really hear him when Steve proposed alternating watches and volunteered to take the first.

Not that Bucky would get a shift tonight. Erskine’s serum had to be good for something outside of warfare.

It didn’t take long after they settled in, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves above their heads and blowing Bucky’s hair into his face where he was fast asleep inside the deepest recess in the tree roots that Steve could find. Maybe an hour elapsed—two at the most—before the sound of scuffling had Steve’s ears perking up and his spine straightening to attention. At first, he thought he was just hearing things or that his enhanced ears were picking up movement from far off. They wouldn’t need to concern themselves with whatever it was if they simply stayed silent.

Then it got louder. More pronounced.

 _Closer_.

Steve rose to his feet, squinting into the shadows to locate whatever was approaching before it realized they were there. Optimum eyesight notwithstanding, there was no moon and not a whole lot the serum could do about that. The body that Dr. Erskine had bestowed upon him wasn’t infallible, especially not with the acoustics of their surroundings hiding the direction of the noise, so Steve had no choice but to grit his teeth and scout the perimeter for caution’s sake.

It was a futile gesture, as he quickly learned, because the sound wasn’t coming from _outside_ their makeshift camp at all.

Two unproductive sweeps later, Steve realized that they weren’t in danger from a Host wandering through the forest or scavengers looking for someone else’s belongings to steal. That would have been far simpler to deal with than the way Bucky was curled in on himself with one foot shooting out at intervals while his right hand scrabbled at the dirt. Even the inky black that pervaded their meager shelter and sucked the color out of everything couldn’t hide the lines on his face where they intensified spasmodically and left him looking pained—pained and _fearful_.

_Nightmare._

Steve had witnessed the warning signs all too often in foxholes and barracks half a world away. They were like their own language, silent and varying but always communicating the same sentiment. Awake, it could be hidden; they pretended they didn’t speak the dialect so fluently that it had become second nature. But the suffering of the mind, however deeply it was buried, couldn’t be thwarted in the dead of the night. It couldn’t be pushed aside when unconsciousness allowed it to slither through your seemingly insubstantial cracks and take hold. Phantoms of the dead plagued the guilt-stricken living, sometimes until the latter wished to become more like the former. How many times had he watched a soldier run into gunfire as though he couldn’t see it? How many men had given up in the Hydra facilities they _hadn’t_ reached in time, their nightmares robbing them of the last of their hope and leaving an abyss of torment in its wake?

How many mornings had dawned where Bucky contemplated just how satisfying it would have been to step off that bridge after a restless, agonizing night of terror?

Reaching out a hand, Steve gently grasped Bucky’s shoulder and whispered, “Buck. Come on, wake up.”

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best idea in the world to wake a soldier in distress so directly, but Steve hadn’t entirely thought it through. All he’d wanted was to extricate Bucky from his mental prison as soon as he possibly could, consequences be damned.

That was why he wasn’t caught _completely_ by surprise when Bucky was immediately on top of him, knocking him onto his back and straddling his torso with his good hand wrapped around Steve’s throat. His eyes were glazed over, fogged by the remnants of his dreams and staring sightlessly through Steve at something that didn’t exist anymore. Or he hoped not, in any case.

For his part, Steve was smart enough not to retaliate. Experience had also taught him that that would only make matters worse. Besides, Steve could take a beating and come through unscathed; his assailant was nowhere near as strong as him. So, he merely wrapped his fingers around Bucky’s wrist and tried to sound like he wasn’t choking when he sputtered, “Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve. It’s just Steve. It’s all right. It’s just me.”

The pressure on his throat didn’t abate, but neither did his endless stream of quiet platitudes, which eventually wriggled beneath the haze of fear and violence that had gripped Bucky until he blinked rapidly and was suddenly very much awake. Steve could see it happen, could spot the precise moment their positions slotted into place in Bucky’s mind, and had to refrain from gasping for breath when Bucky released him and frantically scrambled away. The last thing Steve wanted was to make him feel even worse, especially since all he seemed capable of doing right now was manically repeating, “Oh, my God.”  

“It’s all right,” murmured Steve, clearing his throat and wincing when Bucky’s shadow started at the sound. “It’s fine.”

That, however, was _not_ the correct thing to say. Steve had assumed that it would defuse the situation. Instead, it had the exact opposite effect. Bucky looked _livid_.

“ _Fine_? It’s _fine_?! It’s not _fine_ , Steve! I could’ve killed you!”

Steve raised his hands in placating capitulation, hoping like hell that every Host in a ten-mile radius hadn’t heard the commotion and interpreted it as the dinner bell. “You _didn’t_ , Bucky—I wouldn’t let you. I’m fine, honest.”

From the looks of it, Bucky didn’t so much as rally his thoughts to formulate a coherent response, angry or otherwise. Shaking his head in wordless denial, he unsteadily scooted back against the tree he’d been resting under, pulled his knees up to his chest, and buried his face in his folded arms. When it became obvious that he wasn’t going to emerge anytime soon, Steve carefully moved to sit beside him and massaged his throat while he could be sure Bucky wouldn’t be watching. It wasn’t that he’d done any real damage—Steve hadn’t been kidding about the fact that it would take a hell of a lot more than Bucky was capable of to incapacitate him for any length of time—but it _had_ caught him unawares. Whatever marks Bucky may have left would certainly be gone by morning, however, which was just as well. The last three days had been an enormous improvement on the week that preceded them, and Steve didn’t want to ruin that progress by driving Bucky away when he already looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

They sat in awkward, uncomfortable silence for so long that Steve was certain the sun would rise any time now. To anyone else, he supposed it might have appeared that Bucky had fallen asleep, but Steve could tell from the rigidity in his frame that that wasn’t true. Zombies walked the earth, yet he’d never seen that level of tension in his companion. It wasn’t the appearance of a man who was prepared to jolt into action at the slightest provocation so much as that of a soldier who was frightened that he might attack Steve again if he let his guard slip for a fraction of a second. What made it even worse was that there wasn’t a damn thing Steve could do to make the situation any less bleak.

How had this happened in the first place? It definitely wasn’t _normal_ , as far as he could tell. Since he’d met Bucky, he hadn’t noticed anything untoward when the shadows came out to torment the weary. Yes, some nights he slept less than others, but Steve had guessed that was more due to his nature. Bucky himself had said that living on the street didn’t leave much time for any real rest, as they were constantly on the move searching for their next meal or bed or whatever passed for either. Add to that the ostensible apocalypse, as Bucky put it, and it was no wonder he couldn’t sleep now and again.

Perhaps he’d been wrong, in which case bringing up Bucky’s profession within the military may have reignited old memories that were all too willing to take advantage of an open door to the outside. Was that why Bucky had clearly been avoiding the subject? Was that why he’d reacted with such vehemence when Steve pressed the issue?

 _Should have let it go_ , Steve silently reprimanded himself. It was a good thing the sun still hadn’t made an appearance yet, because he couldn’t help grimacing at his own foolishness. _This is my fault._

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the darkness. It could have been a gunshot for how effectively it shattered the atmosphere.

Bucky stirred beside him but didn’t lift his head. His voice was muffled and indistinct when he asked, “For what?”

_For dredging up the past when I know better than anyone how hard that is. For reminding you of something you obviously weren’t comfortable talking about. For dragging you out here even though it would have been safer someplace else. For everything that’s happened since we met—and everything before that._

“For waking you up like that,” Steve elaborated instead, positive that none of those apologies would be well-received. “Shouldn’t have rushed you.”

A few minutes passed without a response, and Steve couldn’t discern whether Bucky was thinking or had decided to ignore him. Then, to Steve’s surprise, he sat up straight with red, swollen eyes and a visage that looked more drawn and haggard than usual—not from a few missed meals, either. The grey of his eyes was muted in the darkness, but Steve could see how tired he was as he shook his head again in apparent confusion.

“It’s not your fault. Thanks for trying,” he countered with a halfhearted attempt at a smile. Needless to say, it didn’t do much to assuage Steve’s guilt.

He opened his mouth to reply that it _wasn’t_ okay, that the entire debacle _was_ his fault in more ways than one, and that Bucky didn’t need to thank him. The words got caught in his throat, though, and he could do little more than nod mutely as they lapsed back into terse quiet. It took longer than he cared to admit to summon the courage to ask, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Nothing.

“I mean,” Steve backpedaled, immediately contrite, “if you want to. You don’t have to say anything. I just…thought maybe it might help. Back during the war, I knew… I knew a lot of guys who had a hard time sleeping.”

It was a lame argument to his own ears, but it seemed to strike a chord. Steve would call that a victory, albeit a minuscule one.

“They always talk it out after?” asked Bucky, his tone laced with skepticism and something that sounded a lot like shame.

Steve shrugged sheepishly and admitted, “Not really.”

Bucky hummed as if that was all the answer either of them required. That was probably where Steve should have changed the subject to something safer, maybe cracked a self-deprecating joke that would rouse Bucky from his stupor enough to put them back on track. He didn’t, however. What came out instead was a lot more honest than that.

“Sometimes I wondered… Maybe if they had, things might have been easier.”

His words lingered heavily between them, Steve ruminating on the implications and hoping that Bucky was doing the same. It wasn’t a lie—he’d never gotten to see what might have happened, what might have _changed_ if they hadn’t been so tight-lipped about what they’d endured. It would hurt, of course, but was sharing the burden really such a bad thing? Then again, it wasn’t as if he’d given it a try himself, so he couldn’t say for certain. For all he knew, it would just make bearing the weight worse when someone else was roped into helping you. Taking a piece of someone else’s innocence, thrusting upon them a shattered sliver of your own soul that was rife with pain and radiated into whoever touched it? Wasn’t that the opposite of what a soldier was meant to do? Wasn’t that the opposite of what a _man_ was supposed to do?

If they had, though…how might the world have been different? How many wars would have been avoided if men had focused a little less on their pride and a little more on the thoughts and feelings of those around them, those who cared about them and _wanted_ to help? How many lives would have been saved if men had put more time into valuing them and each other? Maybe it was naïve to believe that talking could change anything or make some horrible fate seem further away, but…wasn’t it worth a try?

It had to be, and when Bucky didn’t answer, it occurred to Steve that he had forgotten one of the most important lessons his mother had taught him: in order to change anything, you had to give before expecting to receive.

_Right. Here goes…_

“During the war, there was this…this one mission. It was maybe a couple weeks ago—a couple weeks before the Valkyrie, I mean,” Steve amended hesitantly, not sure why _this_ was the memory he’d chosen to relate but knowing somehow that it was the _right one_. “Schmidt’s top scientist, a guy named Arnim Zola, was being relocated through the Alps by train. The Commandos and I—we intercepted it. In motion.”

“You jumped onto a speeding train?” inquired Bucky. His wariness was tempered by his curiosity, which was all the motivation Steve needed to continue.

“It was the only chance we were going to get. Anyway, there wasn’t much room to maneuver or force them to stop in the middle of the mountains. We prepared the operation and boarded without a problem. Two of us took point, and the others stayed behind.”

“How come?”

“The target was moving too fast to guarantee the rest of the team’s safety. Our window was too limited. So, Jones traveled along the roof to the locomotive. I went inside to clear out any of Hydra’s men that might get in the way and compromise the mission.”

In his mind’s eye, the memory was so vivid that goosebumps rose on his arms beneath the sleeves of the same uniform he’d been wearing that day: getting trapped in one of the cars, narrowly avoiding blast after blast of Hydra’s luminescent blue weapons—until he didn’t.

“I don’t know if they figured out we were coming or not, but there was this…this armored soldier waiting for me when I got in. Everything I had wasn’t enough to beat him. Whenever I thought I had him on the ropes, he got right back up again.”

“How’d you take him out?”

“I didn’t,” Steve admitted with a sour smile and a shake of his head. “It was an accident. I blocked one of his shots and it blew a hole in the side of the train right as we were going around a bend. He fell.”

“…And you?” asked Bucky astutely. Steve couldn’t hold his knowing gaze and turned to stare in the opposite direction.

“I got lucky and caught the rail. It was… _barely_ hanging on. I still don’t know how I got back inside.” At that point, he had to pause, not sure if he could adequately describe the dread he’d felt in that instant—knowing that he was an inch away from death amidst the rocks far below, the winter wind whipping through the openings in his helmet until he could barely see from the tears stinging in the corners of his eyes, the deafening roar of the end of his life reaching up from below to pull him into its loving embrace…

In the end, he didn’t say a word about any of that. For one thing, he wasn’t the only soldier here who’d stared death in the face; if he thought hard about it, Steve was sure that Bucky could work out the rest. For another, he was supposed to be offering courage and support, not looking for pity in all the wrong places. As such, Steve swallowed hard, mustered his resolve, and quietly finished, “I didn’t tell the Commandos what happened. We got Zola—that’s all that mattered. Didn’t stop the nightmares, though.”

With that, Steve finally fell silent and waited for…something. Anything that wasn’t the gnawing sensation of residual fear despite knowing that he wasn’t there anymore—that _there_ was decades ago now. So long, in fact, that no one else was likely to remember. After all, that was an experience he hadn’t shared with anyone, and not because he hadn’t had much time left between that day and what he’d thought was the end of his life. Peggy had been perceptive enough to register that something was wrong the minute they brought the train to a stop at the designated rendezvous, but she hadn’t asked. She hadn’t demanded to know what had transpired, not even during a debriefing filled with piercing stares. Steve liked to believe that she had been allowing him the dignity of his silence. Perhaps she merely hadn’t wanted to push him when they knew they were getting closer to their final encounter with Schmidt. Whatever her reasons, she’d let him stew in the memory of his paralyzing fear the way all the other men did—in wordless contemplation and desperate avoidance. It was the unspoken rule of the battlefield: don’t ask what’s breaking your brothers in arms, and don’t tell them what’s already broken _you_.

At least, it used to be.

“Everyone thinks being a sniper is the most awesome job ever,” Bucky unexpectedly blurted out, so soft and strained that Steve barely heard it at first. It required all of his self-discipline not to look at him when he continued, “Every idiot recruit thinks they’ll be a sniper someday, as if just anybody can do it. Like you’re some kind of _hero_. They make video games about it and kids go nuts.”

Steve almost asked what a video game was but stopped himself at the last second. Now wasn’t the time—he’d have to log it away for later.

Bucky paused, his unveiled disgust momentarily getting the better of him. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I mean, if you’re just another grunt, life’s easy. You do your patrols. You shoot in the direction they tell you to. You don’t have to _see_ it a lot of the time—the damages. But when you’re a sniper… When you’re a sniper, that’s _all_ you see. It’s like…getting a front row seat. You kill someone, you don’t get to step back and say you don’t know how they died. You know how. Headshot, through the heart, severed an artery… You get to see whether they suffer or not. It’s all right there in the scope and…you can’t escape that.” Something like a laugh escaped Bucky’s lips, only it was a harsh, ugly sound that made the hair on the back of Steve’s neck stand on end. “I still see it. I still remember what their faces looked like when I killed them. I see who died right away and who made it out so they could die somewhere else. I see their blood on the ground or pieces of their brains. Like a damn Host.”

“You remember all that,” uttered Steve in quiet contemplation of just how terrible a fate that was—on _both_ sides of the gun.

“I remember all of them,” breathed Bucky, running trembling hands through his hair and gripping clumps of it tightly between his fingers. “They never really go away. Some days are better than others, but they’re always here with me. Always will be, I guess.”

That was a feeling Steve could relate to, even if not quite in the same context. They both had ghosts dogging their steps. In Bucky’s case, they were the spirits of the dead that he’d put there himself; for Steve, they were the apparitions of people he’d left behind, people he might never see again. Nothing he could say would make that better, so he simply reiterated the only thing that mattered.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have asked earlier.”

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t anywhere _near_ enough. Yet, contrary to what he half expected, Bucky didn’t immediately agree. He appeared to mull over Steve’s apology without meeting his eyes and stared into the forest around them as it gradually brightened with the coming of dawn. Not until the sun finally poked its head out from beneath the horizon did he speak, climbing to his feet and holding out a hand to help Steve up.

“We’ve all got our crosses,” he said, and Steve didn’t think he’d heard a more appropriate sentiment in a long time.

 

***

 

“So, let me get this straight: instead of going outside and actually _playing_ baseball, kids move people around on the _television_ to do it _for_ them?”

“That’s basically it, yeah.”

“That’s…”

“Messed up?”

“You can say that again,” Steve huffed indignantly. Video games must have sounded great when Bucky had first explained the concept, but now Steve was obviously realizing the downside: what was the world coming to when kids would rather sit on a couch and let a machine play for them instead of just doing it themselves?

“That’s progress for you,” Bucky interrupted his brooding with a grin. He was far less upset at the prospect than Steve seemed, although he’d grown up in this world and had developed a much deeper immunity to the disappointments that accompanied advancement. “Awesome tech, but everyone’s lazy as hell.”

The corners of Steve’s mouth turned down in disdain. “As a kid, all I ever wanted was to play sports like everyone else. Now they don’t even _care_?”

“Not _all_ of them, but yeah. They actually started making all these ads to get kids to go outside for a change. It’s pretty bad.”

Steve made a noise that Bucky classified as revulsion but otherwise let the subject drop, which didn’t surprise him in the slightest. Stilted as they’d been at times, their conversations had taught him that Steve _hated_ remembering how sick he’d been as a kid. Not once had he communicated any shame at his condition before the serum; while he hadn’t been anywhere near the ideal specimen back then, he’d nevertheless persisted in behaving as if he were ten feet tall, from the sound of it. That mindset only went so far, though, and the notion of kids who’d grown up in far better straits than he had taking all of that for granted? Bucky couldn’t imagine how much it rankled to learn that the modern generations preferred pressing their noses against a screen to the sort of physical exercise Steve’s era had been accustomed to. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing—Bucky was guilty of inhabiting the odd game store now and again when business was slow and the managers turned a blind eye to the homeless guy soaking up the heat—but it had definitely changed the culture. He hadn’t been kidding that morning when he’d said kids entertained some grand delusion of military service only to realize when they finally got there that it was a load of garbage. You lived or you died, but neither was pretty. Plain and simple.

Video games… They couldn’t capture the horror. They couldn’t capture the fear. They sure as hell couldn’t capture the _smell_.

To his credit, Steve took it all in stride despite his displeasure. Still, it was probably safe to assume that he wasn’t about to sample the digital playground for a good long while.

Bucky, on the other hand, would have given anything to sit his ass down somewhere like a video game-addicted teenager right about now. His feet were burning in his boots, fully prepared to riot against him if they had to walk another mile, and his calves cramped up every few yards. There wasn’t any point complaining as neither of them could do anything about it: all the cars they passed were broken down or had been siphoned clean of gas, so they were of no use whatsoever. Grudgingly, Bucky couldn’t help being slightly impressed by the surprising display of utilitarianism. He never would have thought that anyone had the wherewithal to empty _that_ many vehicles of their juice in such a short amount of time. Of course, it was the first thing _he_ would have done, but he was a soldier—he knew how to prioritize in an emergency. Out here in civilian-land, however, he would have expected them to be a little less proactive or just plain scared to go outside with all the Hosts around.

But even that would have been too smart a tactic, he supposed. If the steadily growing number of predators they’d discovered thus far were anything to go by, it was a toss-up as to whether the people who’d come searching for resources had been more courageous or foolhardy.  

The mental image of the mob they’d encountered the previous day careering towards the car had weighed heavily on Bucky’s consciousness ever since, the implications of their speed and desperation too nerve-racking to contemplate for more than a minute at a time. Doing so merely reminded him that they were dealing with myriad unknowns and had no clue whether they were headed in a direction that would mean safety or oblivion. Steve’s aspirations had sounded great when they were settled in the comfort of a fortified structure, Bucky’s own misgivings notwithstanding, but in the open air? It was hard to keep hope alive, especially with the sorts of surprises they were subjected to on the Hosts’ part. Running was something Bucky hadn’t seen before. Running was something he hadn’t considered them capable of.

 _Out_ running them would be impossible in his state, and unfortunately for them, it looked as though it would be necessary in the not too distant future.

Although their early start had apparently afforded them an advance on the crowd they’d left behind, they hadn’t gone more than a few miles further by the time noon rolled around. Whenever they grew comfortable enough to believe that they might be in the clear, a cluster would creep out of nowhere and force them to either backtrack or locate a quiet detour that wouldn’t garner any unwanted attention. There had been one occasion where the trees had tapered off until there was no natural cover to be found, and the best they could do was huddle underneath a burned-out car for a couple of hours until the meandering pack of Hosts dissipated. Of all their numerous misadventures, that had to be the among the most difficult. The tight space and necessity for total silence hadn’t rattled him at all; that was par for the course considering his past. Not being able to see around himself? Having to trust Steve to watch for Hosts approaching on their six? Bucky wasn’t interested in a repeat performance of _that_ particular torture. So far, they’d gotten lucky in that regard. They’d climbed out into the sunlight again, death to their rear and potentially more of it ahead, and continued on. They were always continuing on.

“You need a break?”

Steve’s voice dragged Bucky from his musings, and he cast him a sidelong glance. So, he hadn’t been hiding the slight limp plaguing his right side as well as he’d hoped. Wasn’t that just marvelous.

“Nah, I’m good,” Bucky lied without stopping. The weight of Steve’s disapproving stare made his back itch, but he didn’t allow it to give him pause. “We should put as much distance between us and the Hosts from yesterday as we can. Just to be safe.”

“You’re right, but if you need a break, you should take one. You won’t be much use if you fall over.”

“Thanks,” snorted Bucky. It figured that Steve would appeal to his practicality at a time like this.

The punk knew precisely what he was doing. Bucky didn’t have to see his face—there was too much _pride_ in his tone when he flippantly retorted, “Anytime. Come on, Buck. Five minutes.”

Bucky sighed, though his feet were already scuffing listlessly against the asphalt as he faltered to a stop altogether. That didn’t do much for his argument when he countered, “Seriously, I’m _fine_.”

Nope. It didn’t do anything for his argument at all. Clearly interpreting his lack of momentum for acceptance, Steve led them off the main thoroughfare and mounted the hood of a car whose flat tires had left it stranded in the shoulder.

“Five minutes won’t kill either of us,” Steve argued. Bucky suspected that his groan of discomfort was feigned for his own benefit and had to appreciate the effort.

“You say that now,” he grunted, sitting down beside him anyway. He bit his lip to hide the immediate relief that filled him when his feet left the ground, and it was all he could do not to massage some feeling back into his legs.

Steve was kind enough not to mention it, not that Bucky was under any illusions that he didn’t notice. Instead they sat shoulder to shoulder, examining the road before them like the monstrous battleground it could potentially transform into. A sensation of impending doom raised the hair on his arms, albeit not for the reasons it probably should. Moments like these were what Bucky dreaded most and tried to evade by pushing himself further than he admittedly should: time to _sit_ , to _think_ , to _dwell_. He’d had plenty of that over the last three years; there had been instances where he wondered when he would go insane from the sheer magnitude of the memories that did their best to throttle him. All that had mercifully taken a backseat when survival of a much different kind became his top priority, and he hadn’t had an opportunity to miss the downtime at all. Meeting Steve, however, had changed that. Having another pair of eyes around eased his own burden, freeing up the silent pauses that used to dominate his days so that he could think again. That was the trade-off for safety in numbers. It had its advantages, yet it simultaneously left him far too vulnerable, giving his mind a chance to catch up with his actions.

It was happening again now. Immobile, staring at the long stretch of pavement ahead, wondering what grisly end might welcome them before they so much as approached the outer limits of D.C.—his brain kicked into overdrive, filling his head with all sorts of images he would rather have been spared. One thing remained static in each and every one: _death_. The sole variable was how it happened. Maybe they would run into a pack of Hosts and couldn’t fight through. Or perhaps it would be in their sleep, unaware that they had been made into dinner for the literal monsters humanity had finally embodied. They might arrive in D.C. to find it in ruins, emptied of everything but predators with nowhere else to go. Then again, it could conceivably be worse if they _did_ locate someone who had information. That would open up a whole _new_ can of worms he hadn’t begun to consider in its entirety yet.

Because if they were military… If they heard his name…

The powers that be could only redact so much.

“What was it like in the thirties?” Bucky ejaculated thoughtlessly, closing his eyes and attempting to swallow the sudden bout of nausea that had acid burning the walls of his throat. Throwing up wasn’t an option—it would be a waste of the stale granola bar he’d downed for breakfast.

The question must have caught Steve off guard, because it took him a few seconds to respond, “Don’t you already know?”

“Sure, but it’s different hearing it from someone who was there.”

That and he needed something— _anything_ —to occupy his wandering mind. It didn’t have to be deep or meaningful. Bucky wouldn’t have cared if Steve recited the Star-Spangled Banner as long as it kept him from treading further down the mental avenues that ached to greet him. That was guaranteed not to end well, not to mention the fact that it would reveal a side of him that he preferred Steve stayed unaware of. The guy had seen enough of his worst qualities as it was.

Whether Steve believed that there was more to his request than Bucky let on was anyone’s guess. His curiosity was nevertheless apparent when he inquired, “Why do you want to know?”

Making up an excuse on the fly, Bucky elaborated, “The Great Depression sucked, so maybe it’ll make me feel better about”—he gestured around them at nothing in particular—“all this.”

Most people probably would have been offended by that. At least, the older folks Bucky had known would. There was no shortage of them on the streets, though there were fewer and fewer of the Depression set as more time passed and they went with it. The ones who remembered their parents’ stories? Yeah, they weren’t very keen on discussing it. Not that that was very shocking—they had bigger concerns in the present than the past.

For a guy who remembered the thirties because they were literally like yesterday, Steve was pretty sedate about the whole thing. He chuckled a bit, understanding the reference from Bucky’s sad excuse for a history lesson in the car, and even managed a grin when he replied, “All things considered, that was nothing compared to this.”

Snapping his fingers in mock disappointment, Bucky murmured, “Well, it was worth a shot.”

“Nice try.” They fell silent again, but it didn’t last more than a few seconds before Steve mused, “At least we had the movies. They were a good distraction.”

_If only._

“Yeah. Too bad they’re so expensive now.”

“How much is _expensive_?” asked Steve reluctantly, eyebrow quirked and visibly prepared for the worst.

“Uh…almost eight bucks, I think? The price goes up faster than I can keep track.”

“Eight _dollars_?!” he exclaimed. It was almost comical how far his eyes bugged out of his head. “How is anybody supposed to afford that?”

Bucky snorted, hopped off the car, and motioned towards the road even though his feet were already complaining again. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Do I _want_ to?”

“Probably not.”

That had always been Bucky’s take on it, anyway. Even so, it wasn’t _all_ bad. As it turned out, time passed far quicker and with fewer opportunities to dwell on contingencies when you were bemoaning the state of the economy and soaring cost of living.

As it _also_ turned out, the economy was just as much of a distraction at the end of the world as every other day of the year.

“Shit,” hissed Bucky, diving into the ditch on the side of the road with Steve hot on his heels. In the hour since they’d stopped, the only Hosts they saw were lonely silhouettes in the distance, easily ignored and readily bypassed.  

The veritable herd that materialized in front of them like a mirage in the desert, however, was a very different story.

“I can’t tell how many there are,” muttered Steve under his breath. Maybe it wasn’t accurate to call him that, though. He’d obviously made the shift from Steve Rogers to Captain America.

Bucky could similarly feel his instincts kicking into gear, and in the moment it took to grab his knife out of its sheath, a sense of calm descended upon him in light of what they would have to do. They couldn’t panic now. They had to take action— _quickly_.

“Can you see a way around?”

Steve didn’t answer. Instead, he painstakingly scooted back towards the pavement, holding himself flat against the ground to avoid detection. It was an acceptable risk: the Hosts were barely half a mile off by Bucky’s estimate, and there were so many of them crowded together that he doubted they’d spot Steve’s movements from that distance. For the sake of caution, Bucky didn’t follow suit. Two targets were easier to discern than one, so he focused on easing further into the trench and holding his breath to listen for any others that might be approaching.

Unfortunately, he was a bit late for that.  

A heavy weight dropped onto his back, flattening him in the grass and clawing at his shoulders. The shout that escaped his lips was involuntary, and although he bit down on it almost as soon as it emerged, the damage had already been done. Whatever the Hosts hadn’t seen, they’d definitely heard now. But he could worry about that after he took care of the assailant doing its best to find bare skin to nibble at.

Bucky rolled onto his back, scuttling away from the sound of clicking teeth. He only made it a few feet before he was unceremoniously dragged right back to it; the more he struggled, the tighter the Host held onto his backpack in its desperate attempt for sustenance. It didn’t help that the ground beneath them was slick with mud. His feet slipped out from underneath him, tossing him towards his attacker’s gaping, _hungry_ mouth—

Then he was practically flying in the other direction and hit the pavement so hard that the air whooshed out of his lungs. Painful coughs racked his chest, and Bucky watched from a distance as Steve detached his shield from its harness and brought it down hard on the Host’s head with a sickening _squelch_.

For a second, neither of them moved. Steve glared at the corpse like it had personally insulted him while Bucky struggled to breathe. It was an interminable moment that seemed to stretch across eternity itself, etched forever into Bucky’s memory so that it could haunt his nightmares in the days to come, same as everything else.

And when the world started spinning again, it dissolved into chaos.

“Get up, we’ve got to move,” ordered Steve, abandoning stealth altogether in the face of the horde charging in their direction at full speed, a wave of death rising from the tides of the underworld. His eyes were probably playing tricks on him, but the group appeared to increase so drastically in size as it approached that Bucky was hard-pressed to convince himself that they weren’t popping out of the ground or falling from the sky.

There was no time to prepare a diversion or locate another path that would guide them safely around the throng. Steve simply grabbed his arm and damn near dragged him away until he could get his legs under him enough to run. From there, they sprinted along the highway, retracing their steps and erasing all their progress. Bucky’s heartbeat pounded in time with the feet hitting the street behind them, loud and jarring and getting closer with every second.

“We need to get off the road!” he wheezed. It was breathless and softer than he had been going for, but Steve heard him anyway. His head turned this way and that, scouring the sides of the highway for anything that might provide adequate cover and coming up empty. There was a tree line to their right, not that that would do them any good: the foliage was so skinny and sparse that it wouldn’t be of much use anyway. A few houses appeared as specks in the distance, too far for Bucky’s feet to make it at this speed. Maybe Steve could, being a super soldier and all; Bucky was already tripping over himself as his body finally started succumbing to the exertion.

Steve noticed immediately and shouted over his shoulder, “I can hold them off and buy you some time!”

“The h-hell—y-you can,” panted Bucky with as much fierceness as he could muster. A quick glance to the rear showed him nothing but a wall of Hosts gradually gaining ground the more his own pace waned. “T-Too—many! Gotta be—anoth-ther—way.”

“I can catch up. Just go—get out of here!”

“No, n-not w-without you!”

At that, a switch flipped, and Steve stopped in his tracks regardless of certain death catching up. Bucky staggered to a halt, unsure of who was crazier—himself for not leaping at the opportunity to run or Steve for believing he would. There was no way he’d leave now. Call him stubborn or stupid or whatever, but he couldn’t ditch Steve here alone. They might not last long. They probably wouldn’t survive past the impact they were undoubtedly about to experience. This was the deal they’d struck, though. Wherever they went, they’d go together. That had been their arrangement since setting out from New York, and he’d be damned if he let Steve meet the end of the line on his own.

His expression must have told Steve as much, because he didn’t try to persuade Bucky to keep going. He didn’t offer some heroic speech about at least one of them surviving or how he’d be _fine_ , just like his last attempt at self-sacrifice. All Bucky could see in his eyes was the same steady determination mingled with a softness that he couldn’t identify. Then they turned towards the Hosts, shrewd and calculating.

“I need you to trust me,” he eventually murmured.

Bucky barely heard him over the approaching cacophony, but when he did, he almost laughed in spite of their predicament. _Trust_ wasn’t something he handed out easily, nor had anyone earned it in so many years that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been willing to put his life in somebody else’s hands beyond the military. No one had ever stuck around that long. The last couple of weeks, though… Theirs wasn’t a lengthy acquaintance, yet in this case, the quality outweighed the quantity exponentially. All their various encounters swam through his head—the cafeteria, the motorcycle, the truck, the _nightmare_ …

There was only one response to Steve’s request.

“I do,” Bucky replied.

That was all he needed. Steve nodded resolutely, returned his shield to its spot on his back, and yanked Bucky towards him without another word. Before Bucky could figure out what was going on, he was tossed over Steve’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes while the latter burst into his best impression of the Roadrunner.

_What the actual hell?!_

Ordinarily, he would have articulated that thought, but the position he’d been forced into once again robbed him of his breath. That wasn’t to say that he was complaining—they were making damn good progress, _fairy-tale princess_ jokes aside. Disquieting as it was to be upside down, watching their surroundings blur past, Bucky had to be grateful. This was much faster than they would have been if he were still on foot, even if he did have the energy to carry on. Actually, scratch that: they were moving faster than a _car_.

 _Should’ve just rigged a sled and let him run_ , mused Bucky absently.

They couldn’t keep going backwards, though, not if they ever wanted to reach D.C. Smaller, local roads would take them miles out of their way, adding days or even weeks to their journey when they inevitably found more trouble. Besides that, he couldn’t guarantee that his pilfered map was as up to date as he would like, and GPS was a distant memory. That left them with very few options, of which Steve appeared equally aware. Rather than following the interstate any further, he suddenly vaulted over the guardrail and sprinted across a field of wilted cornstalks. Well, Bucky assumed it was a field. He’d spotted it the first time they passed, but from where he was thrown across Steve’s back, he couldn’t move his head to spy more than a few feet around them in limited directions. Now he understood why Steve had asked for his trust: Bucky was essentially doomed to wait as the Hosts trailed behind them at a slower pace, almost entirely blind.

“Y-y-you’re not-t-t lo-osi-ing ‘em, St-t-teve!” he stuttered. His ribs were going to kill him after this.  

“Not trying to!” shouted Steve in response.

Bucky didn’t have a chance to ask. One more step—two more steps—then they were in the air.

Now, heights didn’t scare him. He’d been in the military too long for that, and as a sniper, vantage points were more appealing if you could survey the landscape _below_ as well as around you. No, if there was one thing that Bucky didn’t mind, it was being airborne.

This…didn’t really qualify.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Bucky held his breath so that he wouldn’t have to witness what came next. He had no clue what Steve was up to, but as far as he knew, flying wasn’t mentioned in the history books. Jumping out of planes into enemy territory, yeah—but not flying. That said, he was infinitely more comfortable with the situation when an abrupt jostling announced their landing and he cracked an eyelid to see that they’d made it…

Onto a rooftop.

“What the hell,” he breathed, vaguely aware that he’d been deposited once more onto his own unsteady legs.  

If this was at all out of the ordinary for Steve, he was good at hiding it. His expression was as collected as ever when he leaned over the edge of the barn roof they stood on and announced, “I hope this thing’s sturdy, because that’s a lot of company.”

Momentarily distracted, Bucky tabled the countless questions swirling around his mind for later and peered past him with a sinking sense of dread. “You ain’t kidding…”

They hadn’t gone as far as he’d thought, the highway still visible behind the mob they hadn’t escaped. Now that they had a target in front of them, the Hosts seemed to congeal into one sprawling mass, filling in the empty spaces until they were more like a battering ram than a wall. From this distance, he gauged that they were at least twenty bodies wide and a dozen deep, and they were moving with distinct _purpose_. Gritting his teeth in trepidation, Bucky glanced over the side of the roof to evaluate the condition of the barn beneath them in comparison to the onslaught. It wasn’t in the best shape, yet they’d been relatively lucky in that it wasn’t one of those dilapidated structures that looked like a healthy breeze might knock it over either. With these numbers, though, there was no telling how long it would hold up.

“We can’t stay here. If they surround us, we’re not getting away,” he observed tersely. At the edge of his vision, he saw Steve nod.

“I don’t think we have much of a choice, Buck.”

No, they didn’t. That was what made it even worse.

“Okay.” Bucky pulled in a deep breath, waited for his pulse to stop deafening him, and asked, “What’s the plan, Cap?”  

Steve’s smirk was brittle and fleeting. “We stay quiet and get low enough that they can’t see us. They should move on if they don’t think there’s anything up here.”

“That’s if they don’t tear the barn down in the process.”

Grimacing in acknowledgement, Steve chose not to comment and shuffled further down the pitch of the roof where they would be invisible to the Hosts, Bucky following his lead.

Waiting was a concept that every soldier grew accustomed to. They could be preparing for battle, loading for transport, or simply patrolling a perimeter, yet time meant little regardless. It was no different now: seconds stretched into minutes, minutes stretched into what Bucky perceived as hours even though he had a feeling that it was his mind playing tricks on him. The torture wasn’t in the waiting, however, but in _not knowing_ —where the Hosts were, if they were passing by the barn, how long the structure would hold if they weren’t, whether there was a potential escape route, if the two of them were surrounded… There were so many unknowns that had his stomach clenching tightly in anticipation of what was to come, not that it made any difference. All Bucky could do was alternate between irrationally checking to be sure that Steve was still beside him and staring up at the sky. That, at least, was the same as ever: blue and clear. How strange to find something so _normal_ when the rest of the world had gone to hell, as though the clouds had no idea of the chaos and death reigning far below. The sun didn’t give a damn about the unexpected banging of Hosts against the wall of the barn, nor did the invisible stars feel any pity for him when he gasped at the way the building shuddered beneath them. It all may as well cease to exist for all they cared.

It wasn’t often that Bucky outright feared death. Maybe that innate sense of fight-or-flight had been burned out of him by too many years in the army, because he could remember an age long past when he _was_ frightened of the end. Well, not really the end so much as what awaited him beyond it. His foster parents hadn’t exactly been a religious bunch, and nothing Bucky had seen in his twenty-seven years of life had given him much reason to believe that there was some omnipotent being watching out for them. (If there was, Bucky couldn’t help wondering if the guy was sleeping on the job.) With no guarantee of an afterlife or even anything better than _this_ , there was no comfort to be found in the idea of dying, so he’d fought to stay alive. That wasn’t out of _fear_ , though. It simply made sense to live if dying might be a hell of a lot worse. The devil you knew and all that.

It had been a long time since Bucky was afraid to die, but now? Lying atop a barn, waiting for the moment when he fell into a sea of flesh-eating monsters? It would have been disingenuous to claim that he was anything less. If he was being honest with himself, it wasn’t even that he was scared for his _own_ sake—it was for _Steve’s_. The guy couldn’t catch a break as it was, yet he’d wanted Bucky on his side. A couple of weeks ago, before they’d met and he was simply fending for himself, it wouldn’t have mattered much if Bucky was erased from the face of the planet or joined the Hosts. No one would know. No one would care. He would just…fade away, to whatever end.

Steve, though… He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to be left alone. Not again.

Was this what it felt like to have people who cared about you? This sense of unease, of downright _terror_ that you would leave them with nothing and no one?

In that case, being on his own really _was_ easier.

They’d come too far together for that, however, so Bucky pushed the darkness of his conscience away to keep it from encroaching on his ability to think clearly. This couldn’t be it. He wasn’t prepared to _let_ it be.

“If y—“ Bucky was interrupted by the roof quaking, both of them bracing for the worst only to be gifted another minute of torturous life. “If you break a hole in the ceiling, we can get inside.”

Bemused, Steve asked, “What good would that do?”

“It would get us off the roof. We could let in a couple at a time and take them out quietly.”

He immediately shook his head, his jaw clenching when a particularly violent rattle rocked them. “I don’t know if I could hold the door shut against this many. We’d be more trapped down there than up here.”

“Well, I don’t hear _you_ coming up with any bright ideas,” grumbled Bucky. Steve actually had the nerve to laugh.

“I’m doing the best I can. The thirties were so much easier than this,” he added sarcastically.

This time, it was Bucky’s turn to chuckle, though it sounded hoarse and tight. “Yeah, you only had to worry about _girls_ eating you alive.”

That earned him a punch to the shoulder as Steve retorted, “Not in the thirties, I didn’t.”

“Splitting hairs here,” Bucky waved him off with a roll of his eyes. “Still sounds a lot better than this.”

“And ten times more awkward.”

Just as Bucky opened his mouth to reply, an earsplitting _crack_ sounded from his left, and his side of the building shifted dangerously—far more than a mere jostle now.

Steve was already moving. His hand shot out for Bucky’s bicep and pulled him towards the center of the roof, which was bowing with ominous intent. It was holding but not for much longer.

_End of the line._

“Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“I really hate these things.”

Huffing what could have been a laugh under different circumstances, Steve nodded in otherwise silent agreement. Their banter cut off by the jarring peril of their plight, all they could do was stare at the edge of the roof and wait. They were out of options. They were out of time.

And they were both so preoccupied with it that they didn’t notice the plane heading straight for them until it was practically over their heads.

“What the hell is that?” Bucky called, holding an arm over his face to block the hot air that engulfed them as the jet swung around to hover just a few yards away.

“It looks like the army’s still working!” shouted Steve over the roar of the engines, a relieved grin on his face that Bucky couldn’t quite share. After all, that wasn’t a government-owned vehicle. Not by a long shot.

“That’s… That’s not the army.”

Steve’s response was lost on him as the rear hatch of the…whatever-it-was opened to reveal a woman in a black catsuit that sharply emphasized her red hair and green eyes. For a second, they simply stared at each other, Bucky’s mouth agape while she surveyed the great Captain America and his meagerly-attired companion. He wouldn’t necessarily say that she sounded like an angel, but given the circumstances, he figured she was as close as they were going to get when she called out, “It looks like you boys could use a ride.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not share Bucky's view of video games. :D Thank you for reading!


	9. Among Friends?

Steve had been laboring under the delusion that he’d seen everything he possibly could in a pseudo-apocalyptic world by now, but the plane he and Bucky boarded was beyond anything they’d yet encountered. Aircraft during the war was rudimentary at best, built less for fashion and more for function. As long as the bombs fell where they were supposed to, it didn’t matter how you looked doing it. No one was concerned with fancy trimmings, not even Howard, which was really saying something when he was perhaps the most flamboyant billionaire on the planet. Engines and weapons—those were their sole priorities.

The jet they found themselves in, however, was the perfect mixture of practical machinery and sleek contemporary style he assumed must be commonplace in this era. The cockpit was open to the rest of the plane, allowing him to analyze the brightly illuminated panels where they were crowded with buttons and switches that he couldn’t identify. A leather seat hovered over the controls with others lining the walls of the cabin beneath narrow windows that overlooked what was going on outside; the cargo terminal where Steve and Bucky had taken up temporary residence was equally comfortable and operational. Not even the Valkyrie had approached the resplendence of this modern marvel. It had been a great deal bigger, to be sure, but size wasn’t everything. That had been a tool of destruction, nothing more. This? This was a masterpiece of twenty-first century design. Although they’d only just escaped what he’d feared was their imminent demise, Steve couldn’t fully contain his awe.

Bucky could. Steve gawped openly at their surroundings, and Bucky plastered himself to the window, his shoulders set in a rigid line that warned Steve the sight beyond wasn’t pretty before he had an opportunity to confirm it.

And when he _did_?

“Oh, my God,” he breathed. Bucky merely uttered a curse under his breath in agreement.

From the air, the situation was even more dire than he’d realized. Claiming that he couldn’t tell how many Hosts there were hadn’t been a lie per se, but it hadn’t been entirely honest either. He certainly couldn’t count each and every individual assailant. His estimates had been fairly spot on, though—and it wasn’t comforting. Far below them, the Hosts comprised an army that grew by the second as more emerged from the corn stalks like moths drawn to a flame. Their speed was diminished without a visible, living target to pursue. That didn’t dissuade them from beating their fists against the walls of the barn in the absent-minded hopes of toppling the last prey they’d seen from its roof. It was vindicating, albeit not in the way Steve would have preferred. He’d recognized immediately that there would be no running from these numbers (for Bucky, at least), nor could they risk leading them anywhere that might be populated. Similarly, while Steve was renowned in military circles for his inability to walk away from a fight, he wasn’t stupid enough to believe that one shield, a handgun, and a knife would put a dent in the crowd. Therefore, when both fight and flight failed, their sole alternative was to freeze. Hiding, he’d believed, was their best option.

_So much for that._

Still, there was something to be said for the Hosts’ lack of intelligence. They hadn’t noticed Steve and Bucky retreating into the plane; like toddlers, their attention was absorbed by the location where their quarry had vanished. That was good. Even though there would be no following them in the air regardless, Steve was partial to the notion that the starving mass couldn’t see them. Irrational, yes, but he supposed that he’d earned a moment of nonsensical decompression under the circumstances.

Besides, a moment was apparently all he’d get.

“Oh, hell no,” groaned Bucky, shaking his head with wide eyes. Steve didn’t think he was imagining the spiteful vitriol glimmering in their depths, though he was surprised to discover that it wasn’t directed towards the throng that had nearly eaten them for lunch. Rather, his gaze trailed after something in the sky that Steve hadn’t perceived before and simply couldn’t wrap his head around once he realized what he was seeing.

_…It… It can’t be…_

But it _was_ : a flying suit of armor was shooting through the sky outside the jet, its red and gold paint glittering blindingly in the sunlight. Despite his best efforts, Steve felt his jaw fall open in wonderment.

“You didn’t tell me they had stuff like _that_ now,” he mused aloud.

To his surprise, Bucky didn’t sound anywhere near as astonished. As a matter of fact, there was a bitter, disdainful undertone to his response that had Steve tearing his eyes away from the window when he seethed, “ _We_ don’t. Only one guy’s got that sort of thing.”

“Who?”

With a final, disgusted glance outside, Bucky dropped into the nearest seat and muttered darkly, “Tony Stark.”

Those two words left Steve feeling like his world had screeched to a sudden, jarring halt. “ _Stark_?”

“Yeah, billionaire douchebag extraordinaire,” grunted Bucky, gaze distant and knuckles white where his hands were clutching his knees. “Calls himself _Iron Man_ and runs around trying to save the world.”

“It sounds like you’re not a fan,” interjected the redhead from the pilot’s seat. She didn’t have to turn around for Steve to hear the smirk emanating from her voice.

Snorting derisively, Bucky shot back, “Not when I’ve met his _other_ fans.”

Steve’s attention was drawn to the window again, and he reluctantly postponed asking what Bucky meant by that for later. Outside, the robot— _Stark_ —was spiraling through space, his gauntlet outstretched towards the barn to fire an honest-to-God _laser_ at it. Before he could blink, the structure exploded in a plume of smoke, wood and metal raining down and impaling the oblivious Hosts. With his enhanced hearing, Steve could just barely make out the pinging of shrapnel bouncing off the bottom of the plane as it ascended away from the blast.

Utterly transfixed, it took Steve a moment to realize that their rescuer was speaking to him. She had the grace not to hold it against him and simply repeated, “They’re called repulsor beams.”

“Repulsor beams?” he asked as he moved to hover beside her seat.

“It keeps the suit airborne, but it’s also an effective weapon.”

Well, _that_ was a bit of an understatement.

“Does a hell of a lot more damage than a grenade,” observed Steve, to which the redhead eyed him with an expression he couldn’t read. He certainly wished he could, because her gaze pierced him so thoroughly that he wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that she could see the wall of the plane behind him. This wasn’t the same as when Peggy tried to work out whether his more reckless plans were actually jokes or Bucky attempted to ask questions without reminding him that he was every bit the man out of time he knew he was. No, this was more like he’d been laid out on a table, cut open, and the redhead was thoroughly examining every cell that made up his entire being. It was acutely uncomfortable and set all of his nerves on high alert. This woman was dangerous, and it didn’t take getting to know her to recognize it.

So was Steve, however, and he wasn’t about to be cowed by anyone, not even the person who’d saved their lives. He refused to divert his own stare, allowing her to scrutinize him wordlessly without flinching or allowing his breath to falter for an instant. Whether he won or lost their silent staring contest was immaterial, although he believed he might have gotten the better of her when he noticed her eyes trail down his body to analyze his suit with unerring scrutiny. It was almost disappointing when she chose not to comment.

“We haven’t introduced ourselves yet,” she changed the subject with ease. Despite the obvious breach of etiquette that it presented, she made no move to offer her own name, which left it up to Steve to make the first move.

“I’m Steve Rogers,” he began, gesturing towards where Bucky was still rooted to his spot, “and this is Bucky.”

The redhead raised an eyebrow. “Just Bucky?”

If the glare he leveled in her direction was any indication, Bucky wasn’t about to dignify her question with a response. That wasn’t much of a surprise: Steve considered them friends, yet even he had yet to unlock the mystery of Bucky’s identity. This woman, grateful as they might be, wasn’t likely to make any more progress in that arena. At this point, it appeared that she’d be lucky to get the time of day out of him.

As such, Steve hurriedly evaded, “And you are?”

For a second, her eyes lingered on Bucky as though she might press the issue. Steve nearly breathed a sigh of relief when she eventually let it go in favor of answering, “Natasha Romanoff.”

“Well, thank you, Miss Ro—”

“Natasha.”

“ _Natasha_ ,” he amended. Pointing at the window, he added, “We probably wouldn’t be standing here right now if you hadn’t found us.”

The shrug he received by way of response was detached, as if she didn’t particularly care whether they’d been rescued or devoured. It wasn’t the most endearing reply—not by a long shot—and Steve watched with a frown while she tapped a few commands on the panel before standing to face him directly. He didn’t miss how her eyes almost imperceptibly darted towards Bucky.

“No thanks necessary. It was luck. With a group of afflicted that big, there’s got to be bait somewhere. We were just in the right place at the right time.”

“Whatever it was, we owe you one,” insisted Steve.

Natasha opened her mouth, but she wasn’t the one who answered, “Technically, I think you owe us _two_.”

“What the…?”

Steve squinted up at the ceiling, from which the distinctly sarcastic male voice had originated. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed both Natasha _and_ Bucky rolling theirs and deduced that this must be the infamous _Iron Man_ Bucky was so _not_ impressed with.

Stark, who definitely didn’t sound like Howard in the slightest, didn’t wait for a response. The rear hatch opened, releasing the air from the cabin with a burst of wind. Bucky leapt away from the yawning entrance just in time to avoid being bludgeoned by the suit of armor that soared inside and landed with a metallic clang right in the middle of the cargo bay.

_That’s one way to make an entrance._

If he thought that the grandeur of his appearance would be matched by an equally majestic level of courtesy, Steve was unequivocally _wrong_.

“Wow,” the same voice echoed from behind the metal faceplate obscuring his features. “Where’s the costume party? I didn’t think they’d still have those at the end of the world, but I’m game. Obviously, there must be plenty of booze.”

Steve blinked once. Twice. _Is he…talking about me?_

The way Bucky immediately went from brooding to boiling answered Steve’s unspoken question for him.

“It’s not a _costume_ , asshole,” Bucky growled, his venomous gaze locked on the suit of armor.

The latter turned to face him, his helmet folding back to reveal a man nearing middle age with a dark brown goatee and sharp, assessing eyes that had been filled with incredulity yet enthusiasm for Steve’s latest request seventy years prior. It was that more than his name which had Steve convinced: some way, somehow, Tony Stark was related to Howard. He just wasn’t sure how yet.

Biting wit, it seemed, was therefore a genetically inherited trait. Stark looked Bucky up and down a couple of times before rejoining, “Guess not. After all, hobo-slash-college-student is _so_ two years ago.”

Steve’s gums hurt merely _watching_ how tightly Bucky clenched his jaw at that, but their host wasn’t finished. His attention almost insultingly passed over Bucky to rest on Steve again.

“Still, not often you see someone impersonating the good captain these days. Bad taste and all that. What, did you raid the Smithsonian?”

Narrowing his eyes, Steve retorted, “I didn’t have to _raid_ anything. It’s mine."

“Well, _now_ it is,” agreed Stark. “Finders keepers and all that. Though I guess it must be pretty easy when you’ve got America’s ass.”

It was probably for the best that Steve didn’t get a chance to reply to that, not that he had any idea what he’d say if he did. Natasha swooped in to the rescue once again, stepping purposefully between them with what he could only classify as a warning glare in Stark’s direction.

“Gentlemen, this is Tony Stark, the billionaire douchebag extraordinaire you mentioned,” she announced, her voice deliberately monotone but her eyes far more expressive. “Tony, this is Steve Rogers.”

“Sure, okay, I can buy that.” Stark briskly pushed past Steve, and for a fraction of a second, Steve thought that _might_ be the end of the discussion. Instead, their host collapsed into the pilot’s seat Natasha had vacated and ordered, “J, run facial recognition on Captain Underpants on Fire and the boy wonder over there.”

“Yes, sir,” replied a British-accented voice with no visible source.

Steve’s confusion must have been visible, because Stark waved his hand with a dramatic, dismissive sort of flair. “Oh, don’t worry. Not like you fine, upstanding gentlemen have anything to hide, right?”

_Not from someone like you._

They didn’t require a lengthy acquaintance: Steve could tell what kind of person Tony Stark was already and wasn’t about to be the first to yield in this verbal sparring match.

Willpower effectively tested, Steve swallowed the growing desire to punch him in the face and brusquely affirmed, “Of course not.”

Part of him wondered if Natasha would intercede once again. After all, she’d been on their side for most of the conversation despite the fact that Steve got the impression she worked for Stark. When his eyes sought hers, however, he discovered that she wasn’t even paying attention to what Stark had said. Her gaze was fixed firmly on Bucky, and it wasn’t difficult to determine why.

For the first time since they’d met, Bucky looked _terrified_. Not like when their lives were at stake; not like when he was cornered by Hosts or out of options. Steve had witnessed his responses to varying degrees of stress and danger, from their initial encounter to the one that had left them stranded on a barn roof with no hope of survival. While fear and tightly controlled panic had permeated his features then, it was nothing compared to how he looked now. He’d seen Bucky in dire straits. What he _hadn’t_ seen was how Bucky’s face paled and his legs trembled so hard that he had to sit back down. That prompted Steve into motion, but he’d hardly moved a step when the disembodied voice rang out once again to stop him in his tracks.

“Captain Steven Grant Rogers, born July fourth, 1918. Declared killed in action, 1945. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, born March tenth, 1985. Current status unknown.”

The silence that fell over the jet was deafening. A few seconds passed where Steve wasn’t sure who was more…impressed? Shocked? Whichever it was, his surprise at the unknown entity’s knowledge rivaled Stark’s dazed expression. Still in his suit, their host’s head looked unusually small compared with the broad metal shoulders he sported. That mixed with the bafflement on his face when he stared at Steve like he’d seen a ghost left him appearing much younger than his years. This time, he didn’t recover his composure so quickly, although Steve supposed he should hardly be surprised: Bucky had needed to process the situation as well, and even then he’d required some pretty damn good evidence before he would remotely entertain the notion.

That thought had him peering over his shoulder, and his chest tightened with a mixture of emotions at the sight of Bucky hunched forward in his seat, holding his head in his hands. To say that he was totally demoralized didn’t quite encompass the defeated slump of his shoulders or how it seemed as though he might melt into the floor at any moment. The nightmare Steve had woken him from had come close, but this? This was a total shutdown of proportions that he hadn’t seen before. Bucky was braver than many of the soldiers Steve had fought alongside in Europe, so much so that he still occasionally felt a pang of remorse for accusing him of being a coward in New York when he repeatedly proved himself the opposite. Not once had he lost his cool unless it was to get _angry_ , not…whatever this was. It didn’t make sense. Why did it hit him so hard that Stark had figured out his name? Did he believe that the billionaire Iron Man would look down on him for who he was? For being a war veteran who’d fallen on hard times rather than the owner of so much money that Steve wouldn’t know what to do with it? That was something to be _proud_ of, not hide from.

_Unless there’s something else he hasn’t told me._

It wouldn’t be the first time, and Steve believed it might be optimistic to the point of idiocy to assume that it would be the last.

Steve didn’t get to ponder it further as Stark chose that moment to clap his hands together and draw their attention away from Bucky’s potential secrets. His expression didn’t quite match his apparent joviality, though, and his voice was strained as he exclaimed, “Well! Gotta admit that I’m impressed. To be honest with you, Cap, I’m not sure if I should say _welcome back_ or _congratulations_.”

Something told him he probably didn’t want to know the answer, yet Steve inquired, “Congratulations for what?”

“For being the longest reigning hide-and-seek champion,” Stark retorted as though it were the most obvious answer in the world. His tone was as sharp as his gaze when he continued, “Dear old Dad looked for you for _years_. The equipment was nothing like what I could’ve done, but it was pretty good for the time—still found nothing. So, believe me, it’s impressive. Really.”

It was hard to say whether he was genuinely awestruck or putting on a show, so thorough was his sarcasm. That was just as well for now. Steve could do little more than stare at him anyway, unable to reconcile the image he presented with Howard Stark—Steve’s friend and, apparently, Tony Stark’s _father_. No amount of reminding himself how long it had been could erase the memory of Howard as a young guy, likely not much older than Steve. (It suddenly struck him that he hadn’t thought to ask. He could add that to the list of regrets he would never be able to correct another time.) That man had been a genius, shrewd and calculating but with a good heart that he hid beneath a whole lot of bluster. He was a privileged socialite who played the field and gave no indication that he wanted to settle down and have kids.

He was also a relative professional who wouldn’t have eyed Steve with such veiled hostility or addressed him with the careless disregard of someone who didn’t give a damn about all he’d lost to get here.

_How is_ this _Howard Stark’s son?_ Steve wondered incredulously. He nearly asked it aloud but caught himself at the last moment. From the sounds of it, Stark already disliked him, or at the very least his presence. They didn’t need to get thrown out of their newfound haven simply because Steve couldn’t discipline his mind and tongue.

“How _is_ Howard?” he asked instead, opting for what he considered a safer route.

“Dead,” answered Stark bluntly. “Been gone, what—twenty years now?”

Well, there went his chances of keeping his foot out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Stark shrugged in supremely unruffled detachment. “It was a long time ago. I got over it.”

The noise that emitted from deep in Natasha’s throat claimed otherwise, but Stark studiously ignored her to cast Steve’s uniform a critical glance.

“Speaking of ages long past, you ever think of getting a makeover? Not that the _Foxhole Chic_ isn’t totally doing it for you, but you probably want something that offers more protection against the rabid hordes. Maybe a little more pizzazz and a little less _I Pledge Allegiance_ , while we’re at it.”

The non-sequitur caught Steve off guard, and he looked down at the outfit that had accompanied him through hell—the outfit that Howard had designed for him when his journey began. “I don’t see anything wrong with it.”

Stark shrugged. “I mean, sure. My grandfather wouldn’t either. If I knew my grandfather, which I don’t, but I’ll bet he’d love it.”

“I think what Tony’s _trying_ to say,” interjected Natasha with an impatient roll of her eyes, “is that the stars and stripes are sort of old-fashioned.”

He’d gleaned as much from the information Bucky had provided, although that didn’t make it hurt less to hear that he once again was behind the curve. This new world was so different from the one he’d been born into. The willingness to offer life and limb for your country had mostly evaporated, leaving what Bucky had described as a much more jaded, suspicious populace in its wake. No more fireside chats; no more benefit of the doubt for the people in power. The worst part was that they had reason to feel that way: in his short lessons on the last seven decades, it hadn’t been lost on him that the so-called _American way_ had changed drastically and left a few people behind in the process. The stars and stripes didn’t mean the same thing to everyone that they used to.

That was a pill to swallow later, though. For now, they had bigger problems to solve than the state and fashion of his uniform. They were in a plane flying itself to God only knew where with two people he didn’t even know if they could trust yet. It was well past time for some answers.

“Where are we going?” demanded Steve, ignoring Natasha’s reproachful yet unsurprised gaze. Stark must have predicted that he’d change the subject as well, because he didn’t attempt to prolong the conversation about his attire further.

“Malibu,” he replied as he turned towards the controls, his back to Steve in an obvious dismissal. “Seems like a good place for a getaway, don’t you think?”

_Malibu’s a long way from D.C._ , thought Steve. With technology like this, it made more sense for Stark and Natasha to be going in the same direction as them, not the opposite.

Seeming to read his mind, Natasha explained, “We’re meeting some people who might be able to help figure out what’s going on with this parasite and how to stop it.”

“I didn’t really think _Malibu_ would be the place to do that. Why not try the capital or the CDC?” asked Steve.

“They’re gone.”

A beat of silence—two. “Everything?”

“Just about. D.C.’s been evacuated. Anyone worth talking to has gone underground to any number of secure facilities we don’t exactly have access to.”

Disappointing as it was to have it confirmed, Steve couldn’t claim that it was a shock. How many arguments had he and Bucky had about the very same thing? How many times had Steve insisted that they should check only for Bucky to point out that their chances were slim? All they could do was wait until they got there and survey the lay of the land for themselves. Call him foolish, but Steve had been keeping hope alive that maybe their suspicions were wrong.

Hope, it seemed, was as fickle now as it had been seventy years ago.

“What about the CDC?”

“ _That_ would be a pile of rubble covering half of Atlanta by now,” Tony chimed in. “They got a bit too ambitious in the testing phase, kept too many samples on hand. Bada bing, bada boom—you’ve got a whole facility crawling with zombies. The army cut their losses and napalmed the place. Not much to find there.”

Of course there wasn’t. That was the theme of their whole operation thus far.

Nodding in numb acknowledgement, Steve turned around without another word and strode back towards the cargo bay where Bucky had emerged from his makeshift cocoon. If he thought he’d find comfort there, Steve was sadly mistaken. Bucky watched him approach, eyes defeated and lifeless, dulled by the same weariness that had radiated from him when they first met. Steve had come to recognize that expression as well as his mother’s smile or Peggy’s ferocious intent, except its power lay in its capitulation. It was the look that said they were finished and exuded the conviction that there was no reason why they shouldn’t give up right now.

But there _was_. If Tony Stark was anything like Howard—and despite his abrasive attitude, it didn’t seem like the apple had fallen far from the tree in some respects—then whoever was waiting for them in Malibu must be talented enough to help them find some answers. Hell, even Stark probably knew more than he let on. It wasn’t like Steve had asked yet. Whether he did or not, they weren’t completely lost. Not yet.

The encouraging smile he shot Bucky didn’t have much of an effect, but that was neither here nor there. Bucky wasn’t much for words. Actions were more his style, so Steve vowed to do everything he could to prove that they weren’t down and out. The plan was changing, yes, but it was still a plan.

Taking a deep breath, Steve made the decision for both of them and announced, “I guess we’ll be joining you.”

“That was the idea,” Natasha replied with a smirk, but of course, Stark _had_ to have the last word.

“Wouldn’t dream of leaving you out of the super-secret boy band, Capsicle—which I’ve got some questions about, by the way,” he added pensively. At Natasha’s scathing glare, however, he grimaced and muttered, “But we can save that for later. Let’s focus on getting to Malibu in one piece, finding you something less spangly to wear, and getting the Great Unwashed back there into a shower before we cross that bridge.”

The fury that flashed through Bucky’s eyes at the not so subtle barb banished the darkness that had lingered there, though that was slightly less heartening when he looked like he might be preparing to disembowel Stark with his bare hands. Between his open hostility and the way Stark seemed _very_ well aware of what he’d done, Steve guessed that this was going to be a _very_ long flight.

 

***

 

_Breathe in…_

Of all the people they could possibly be rescued by, it _had_ to be Tony goddamn Stark.

_Breathe out…_

It wasn’t as if they didn’t have _enough_ trouble on their hands. No, they _had_ to find the one person on the planet who could make the entire situation infinitely worse just by being himself.

_Breathe in…_

It was hard not to hate him on principle if for no other reason than what he stood for—or _used_ to stand for, if his party line was to be believed. That had been difficult to accept when he was huddled on the street outside a junky electronics store listening to reruns of Stark pledging pacifism, and it was no better now. Bucky simply had too much experience with the technology that had made the Stark family their fortune to be convinced that he’d truly changed. How many times had Bucky been in the middle of a war zone surrounded by the Stark Industries logo? On how many occasions had he shot one of those advanced weapons at the enemy and witnessed it effortlessly end their life? And how often had those same armaments been fired back at them from the hands of their adversaries?

How many lives had been lost because Stark didn’t care how the hell he made his cash so long as he _did_ get paid?

_Breathe out…_

That wasn’t even mentioning all the rest, the stuff that had been classified within an inch of its life and redacted until Bucky assumed the record looked like someone’s pen had exploded all over it, obscuring anything worthwhile. Day after day, week after week, year after year he’d entered _that_ room when necessity knocked. He’d waited at attention, been outfitted with the latest and greatest in Stark technology, and was sent out to—

No. He couldn’t think about that. If he did, he’d be lost.

_Breathe in…_

Did Stark even know about that part? Had he been informed of the use to which the military had put his creations? He had to. There was no way that the nosiest jerk to grace the planet could be that clueless.

But he had the balls to fly around in a glorified missile and call himself a _hero_?

_Breathe out…_

It was laughable. No, it was worse than that: it was _disgusting_ to think that a man like Tony Stark could still have the world eating out of the palm of his hand after all the lives he’d destroyed, directly and indirectly. Nobody cared, though. Just as Bucky had been forgotten when he wasn’t useful to the military anymore, just like the impassive and obligated _thank you for your service_ spiels had tapered off, they couldn’t care less. Grandeur flooded their senses, creating the image of a god among men when the bastard was as fallible as the rest of them. There were a few decent reporters out there willing to shed light on the dirty dealings at Stark Industries, of course, but their findings hardly had any bearing on popular opinion. Tony Stark was rich, successful, and saved people in a shiny metal suit. Nobody gave a damn about the soldiers he’d condemned to death on _both_ sides any more than they cared what happened to the battle-weary who lived long enough to make it home.

_Breathe in…_

The vicious, useless cycle marched on and on through countless eras, favoring the wealthy and punishing the rest for not attaining such a lofty status. And now he would be forced to work with this piece of crap—that much was obvious from the resigned determination on Steve’s face when he said they would accompany Stark and Romanoff to Malibu. The rest of humanity would follow Stark because he was a wealthy douchebag who looked like he knew what he was doing at least twenty-five percent of the time. Steve would follow him because he was attempting to combat the Hosts, which was enough for his moral sensibilities.

And Bucky? Well, Bucky was along for the ride.

_Breathe out…_

For now, anyway. Bucky wasn’t stupid enough to fool himself into believing that Stark wouldn’t locate and read his file. He already had a name. With his infinite resources and absolute disregard for the people he stepped on in order to get his way? He wouldn’t need the internet to be up and running—he’d have the information within seconds of putting his mind to the task of acquiring it.

He would tell Steve. He would tell anyone who’d listen. He’d ruin Bucky in one word and then forget all about him, just like everyone else.

_Breathe in…_

He could leave. Bucky was certain that that was the logical choice: to run as soon as they hit the ground. Wish Steve good luck on his quest and beat a quick retreat. Maybe the west coast was better, less affected by the plague of parasites. If he could find a boat, get out on the water, and be an island unto himself, then he wouldn’t have to deal with trespassers or enemies or _friends_ or any of that garbage again. It would just be him. He’d wait out the end, however it came, in peaceful exile.

_Breathe out…_

_But you owe him_ , a voice in the back of his head reminded him. It was familiar, a relic of a past that he’d tried desperately to put behind him, and Bucky couldn’t help thinking how unfair it was that it chose to speak up _now_. It hadn’t been there when he was looking for a civilian job or an apartment or a place to _exist_ in this world for the last three years; it hadn’t done much to tell him where he could find a spot to sleep or food to eat or clothes to keep him warm in the winter. Now, however, it thought it had the right to whisper about the debt he had yet to repay.

To that, he had no valid argument.

_Breathe in…_

Bucky was stuck. There was nowhere else to go because that place he’d been searching for was right next to Steve. Stark was an idiot, and he didn’t know enough about Romanoff to trust her—nor, from the looks of things, would he decipher her motives anytime soon. Regardless, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that they’d let Steve run straight into danger without a second thought for his own well-being like he would have if Bucky hadn’t been there in Manhattan to temper his eager righteousness. Steve Rogers, Captain America—whoever he was, he needed someone to have his six, and Bucky owed him that much for how many times Steve had saved his life. He owed him that much as a _friend_.

_Figures I’d live to regret that._

_Breathe out…_

“Buck?”

Blinking, Bucky mentally shook himself and glanced up to find Steve standing beside him. Where Bucky had resorted to stiff silence lest he inadvertently poke the bear that Stark represented, Steve had alternated between sitting in the adjacent seat and wandering over to their pilots, asking questions which Bucky couldn’t begin to answer given the limited scope of his knowledge. That was all well and good for Steve, but it simply highlighted how inadequate Bucky was by comparison.

_It won’t be long. He’ll leave. He’ll have to._

“Yeah?”

“We’re here,” Steve told him with a nod toward the rear hatch.

In his preoccupation, Bucky had apparently missed the plane landing and the others exiting into the bright sunlight that poured through the opening. Beyond lay what could only be Stark’s Malibu mansion, a disc of modern white architecture at the edge of a cliff (because it wasn’t like _that_ could end horribly, horribly wrong or anything). Bucky had gotten a better look at the place from the news on occasion, and it hadn’t struck him as altogether impressive. Then again, most of it was probably built into the rock far beneath the ground where all of Stark’s toys could hide from prying eyes. From this angle, at least, there wasn’t much to see, though his mind was already painting a grotesquely detailed image of the finery that undoubtedly lay inside. Tony Stark would settle for nothing less than the best, after all. He’d be an even bigger idiot if he did.

Some people had all the luck.

Bucky assumed his disdain must have been visible, because Steve’s eyebrows were furrowed tightly and he checked to make sure they were alone before asking, “You all right?”

“Yeah,” lied Bucky. “Just tired.”

Steve hesitated, affirming that he didn’t believe Bucky for a second, but he was nice enough to let it slide. Instead, he suggested, “You should get some sleep. Stark has to have a place to rest up.”

Bucky’s contemptuous snort melted into a groan as he got to his feet and stretched. “He’s a billionaire, Steve. His _dog’s_ probably got a bigger room than most people’s houses.”

Steve didn’t laugh, and that was the first sign that something wasn’t quite right. The second was the pronounced darting of his gaze from Bucky’s face to the exit and back. Whatever was eating at him apparently wasn’t meant for anyone else to hear. That could only mean…

“Did you know he was related to Howard Stark?” Steve demanded quietly.

Relief bubbled up from Bucky’s stomach, and he swallowed around the nerves that had bundled tightly together in his throat to choke him where he stood. He’d been expecting a very different question, one that was far less easy to answer. This, Bucky could manage.

“Sure. You don’t get through basic without pledging allegiance to the biggest weapons contractor in history,” he huffed sardonically. As much as the death and destruction was ingrained in his memory, refusing to budge, what made it even more terrible was how the brass had basically worshipped the ground every crate of death rolled over.

The Starks’ past dealings in murder and annihilation seemed to be the furthest thing from Steve’s mind, though. His eyes were clouded and his expression dark as he stared past Bucky towards the house. Not for the first time, he got the distinct impression that he had returned to a world that didn’t exist anymore. If anyone knew that feeling, it was Bucky.

“Do…you know him?” he asked when Steve didn’t say anything, and for a long moment, he thought he wouldn’t get an answer.

Eventually, Steve murmured distantly, “He was a friend.”

A friend. Tony Stark’s father was Steve’s _friend_. Somehow—Bucky hadn’t believed it possible—that made the paltry excuse for a life he’d been cobbling together swirl down the drain even faster. There was a connection now, a bond that hadn’t existed when they’d first met. Steve didn’t seem the type to let nostalgia influence his judgment, but there was no telling considering the circumstances. Maybe he’d go easier on Stark junior since he’d been on good terms with Stark senior. Maybe he’d give the guy the benefit of the doubt, listen to what he said— _everything_ he said…

A surge of desperation gripped him, and it was all Bucky could do not to open his mouth and blurt out that the son couldn’t possibly live up to his father’s reputation. For one thing, it was a total lie. He didn’t know as much about Howard Stark besides the usual schtick, but Tony? He didn’t need his father’s legacy to make a name for himself on top of it. It wasn’t Howard who’d been called the _merchant of death_. What would Steve think if he heard _that_?

Bucky didn’t have the heart to find out. It didn’t matter what happened to him; it didn’t make a difference whether they kicked him out today or tomorrow or next week. Ultimately, Steve would hate him anyway now that there were better companions to be had. There was no use speeding up the process and giving him yet another reason.

So, despite the bitter taste it left on his tongue, Bucky mumbled, “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine,” replied Steve hollowly. His smile was equally empty. “It’s just…weird, that’s all. It feels like I was talking to Howard about our last mission a couple weeks ago. Now we’ve flown across the country with his son. And he’s _older_ than me.”

Grimacing, Bucky recommended, “Yeah… Maybe _don’t_ let him hear you saying that.”

Steve raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

“I’ve got a feeling he’ll Google every old person cliché in existence just to spite you.”

“I’ve got a feeling you might be right about that,” chuckled Steve.

Bucky thought that was the end of the conversation. Well, _hoped_ was more accurate. Unfortunately, nothing ever went quite his way, and Steve’s hand closed on his upper arm before he could step off the plane. When Bucky turned back around to face him, he was leveled with a stern yet compassionate stare that he nearly withered beneath.

“About earlier…”

There it was. He _knew_ it wouldn’t be long.

Steve trailed off when Bucky broke eye contact to look pretty much _anywhere_ else, not that that was going to deter him. Rather, he appeared all the more determined to point out, “It really bothered you when Stark figured out who you were.”

There wasn’t exactly a question there, so Bucky exercised his right to remain silent.

“You can tell me, you know. When you’re ready,” Steve added quietly, and Bucky could tell that he was still watching even though he couldn’t return Steve’s gaze. He was too afraid of what he would see there: accusation or acceptance. Neither would make him feel any better.

Opening and closing his mouth a few times, Bucky finally settled on shrugging noncommittally. What else was he supposed to do? If he thanked Steve, then he would be admitting that there _was_ something to be shared—which there _wasn’t_. He’d sworn when he left the army that there were certain secrets he’d take with him to his grave, wherever and whenever that happened to be. The military had felt the same and kindly kept most of his service record under wraps, albeit for different reasons. When Steve found out…

It wasn’t worth thinking about, because it wasn’t going to happen right now. Not from Bucky, at least.

The instant Steve released his arm, Bucky turned on his heel and stalked off the plane into the California sunshine. Although there was an invisible vise squeezing his lungs, the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs on the other side of the house was soothing enough that he could almost believe Steve would let the subject drop. And he _did_. Sort of.

“Face it, Buck. You’re just mad that now I know where _Bucky_ comes from.”

…Okay. He had to laugh at that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> For more on my writing, the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and much more, please check out my [Tumblr](https://theasset6.tumblr.com/)!


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